


King of Winter

by Aspen_Writes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, Babies, Beautiful Golden Fools, Betrayal, Bonding, Braavosi courtesan, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Divergence - Purple Wedding, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Cersei stays true to Jaime, Character Death, Childbirth, Coming of Age, Consensual Underage Sex, Coronation, Dragons & Direwolves can play together, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escape, F/M, Faith of the Seven, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Forced Marriage, Friendship, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, King Ned Stark, Kingsguard, Lannister Family Drama, Lannister-Stark alliance, Learning to be a Stark, Loss of Virginity, May/December Relationship, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Ned Stark Lives, Ned Stark's Honor, Northron Traditions, Old Gods, Playlist, Pregnancy, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Rape, Repairing Relationships, Riverrun, Romance, Slow Burn, So can Starks & Targaryens & Lannisters, Stark-Targaryen alliance, Sworn Shields (ASoIaF), The King in The North, Theon Greyjoy's Shenanigans, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Three year plot, Twincest, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Uneasy Allies, Uneasy Truce, Violence, War, Warging, Wedding Night, Weddings, Westerosi Matrimonial Bedding Tradition, Westerosi Politics, What-If, Winterfell, Work In Progress, it will be fun they said, the young wolf, winter is coming, winter is here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 128,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspen_Writes/pseuds/Aspen_Writes
Summary: Westeros is in chaos: Eddard Stark has escaped King’s Landing and, after a harrowing journey north, the Lord of Winterfell has returned and has been proclaimed King in the North. Much as Ned Stark never wanted to be a king, Winter is Coming and the North needs someone to protect them. What he never expected was a hesitant alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, to have to leave one daughter behind married to the most cruel King in an age with a war threatening to tear Westeros apart, to have one son warning him that the Wildings are about to breach the wall and spill into the North unchecked, and another son betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon in some attempt to stop a war that has already begun. The Iron Throne may not be comfortable to sit, but Eddard Stark thinks the Throne of the North might just be worse.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Myrcella Baratheon/Robb Stark, Roslin Frey/Robb Stark, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 320
Kudos: 180





	1. Playlist

**Some Housekeeping Tidbits & Playlist **

So, I’ve been dropping hints about this fic for well over a month now. I hope you’re as excited to read it as I have been writing it!

To begin with, I need to thank Fritheswith & BelleMort for being my betas and Hejsokoly for helping me solve plot holes!

If you have a chance, please review. I answer all reviews!

This story started because I wanted to do Robb/Myrcella and my suspension of disbelief is too high to simply put them together and not think about all that would have to happen to make it work. Ultimately, that created this project.

One thing you should know is that I am sometimes a slow poster due to life happenings. At my fastest speed I do about a chapter per two weeks but sometimes it can be a month or longer. However, I do not abandon stories ever. (I know I have one more chapter of Bound coming, and it is coming, I promise!)

My current timeline for King of Winter covers roughly 3.5 years. To help you keep track of things, I’m using “Moons” instead of chapters. This way, you can tell that all the content in that chapter happened during a specific month. Occasionally, if there was a lot of material, I have split it into waxing and waning moons (just think part one and part two). Obviously, I cannot cover everything that would happen in every month or the fic would be longer than ASOIAF itself, but these are the main happenings.

In a couple of places, canon events have gotten slightly out of order to serve story purposes, so please forgive me. Also, Myrcella has been aged up a little from her book age and she is 11 going on 12 at the beginning of this whereas Joffrey is 12 going on 13. All other characters retain their book ages.

During the summary, I mentioned foreshadowing of the Wildling attack on the wall. This is one canon happening that is going to be pushed back. Only foreshadowing exists in this story making this event happen later than in the books. Throughout this story you can imagine Jon continues his duties for Lord Commander Mormont just as he did before the Ranging. It is very possible that if I do a sequel to this (likely) that covers another three years beyond this that that plot will unfold at that time.

Being that this is ASOIAF, the story does contain elements that may make some readers uncomfortable including violence, rape, battle scenes, and smut. I will try to label chapters that I think might be particularly worrisome.

I have created a playlist of music that I listen to while writing. You can find the Spotify link for it below. I also have a list of all the songs and what they make me think of. The playlist is not in any sort of chronological order whatsoever because it is nearing 6 hours long, and that would just be way too complicated to organize at this point! I continue to add to the playlist and I will post at the beginning of “Moons” when the playlist has been updated, so be sure to check this page for the new song connections and revisit the Spotify link! There are a couple of songs Spotify did not have. Namely, a Snow Patrol song and a song from the Narnia movie soundtrack. You may need to grab these from Youtube if you want to hear them (definitely recommend! They’re two of my faves!)

&&

**King of Winter Playlist**

The link:

<https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66ZLi3pnLw488EM0f5moUR?si=j_Y-YamPSOy1mUHcJhKT6w>

*Note that these aren’t in any sort of chronological order, just how they were added to Spotify.

What the songs made me think of is below:

  * Game of Thrones Main Title (Instrumental) - The beginning
  * A Hero Comes Home (Beowulf Soundtrack, Idina Menzel) - Ned Stark
  * I See Fire (Peter Hollens cover) - The Night’s Watch
  * Geronimo (Sheppard) - Crowning Ned King of the North
  * Halo Theme Song (Instrumental) - War music
  * The Draw (Bastille) - Going home to Winterfell
  * Pompeii (Bastille) - How to pick up after the war
  * Coming Home (Sheppard) - Catelyn/Ned reunited at Riverrun — It’ll do for home for now.
  * Power is Power (SZA, The Weekend, Travis Scott - GOT soundtrack) - Ned won’t let the Lannisters get him down.
  * Kingdom of One (Maren Morris - GOT Soundtrack) - Sansa’s rape while Arya and Ned escape.
  * Home (Ramin Djawadi - GOT Soundtrack) - Stark Theme
  * Future (Paramore) - Myrcella tries to give Sansa hope.
  * You’re Not Alone (Erutan) - Robb / Myrcella
  * Once Upon a December (Anastasia Soundtrack) - Sansa remembering her childhood
  * The Voice (Celtic Woman) - Heart Trees
  * Light of the Seven (Ramin Djawadi - GOT Soundtrack) - Cersei’s theme song
  * Renegades (X Ambassadors) - The Northmen go to war.
  * Conspiracy (Paramore) - Scheming to make Ned King in the North
  * Best Day of My Life (American Authors) - Wedding Night shenanigans
  * Natural (Imagine Dragons) - Playing the Game of Thrones
  * Untitled / How Could This Happen To Me (Simple Plan) - Ned thinks about ‘losing’ the game of thrones.
  * Things We Lost in the Fire (Bastille) - The loss of Sansa’s innocence
  * I Know Places (Taylor Swift) - Cersei/Jaime - when Stannis releases his letter and just their secret relationship in general.
  * Human (Christina Perri) - Sansa/Joffrey
  * A Thousand Years (pt. 1 & pt. 2) (Christina Perri) - All the couples who fall in love.
  * Human (Rag’n Bone Man) - The Hound
  * Legendary Lovers (Katy Perry) - Cersei / Jaime ; Mormont / Dany
  * Your Bones (Of Monsters & Men) - Cersei & Jaime missing each other
  * King of the North (Ramin Djawadi - GOT Soundtrack) - Ned Returns to Winterfell
  * Walking the Wire (Imagine Dragons) - Robb/Myrcella
  * My Watch Has Ended (Ramin Djawadi GOT Soundtrack) - Jon’s Theme Song
  * Bastard (Ramin Djawadi GOT Soundtrack) - Another Jon Theme Song
  * Secrets (OneRepublic) - Sansa / Sandor
  * Die Young (Sheppard) - Stark Kids + Robb/Ned’s Battle Guard - Maybe this is death but not without being remembered.
  * Arms (Christina Perri) - Robb/Myrcella
  * Because of You (Kelly Clarkson) - Sansa/Joffrey
  * We Are Broken (Paramore) - Sansa/Sandor
  * Last Hope (Paramore) - Sansa/Sandor - “Give me a reason not to do it. One Reason.”
  * I Can Wait Forever (Simple Plan) - Cersei chooses not to be with anyone but Jaime in his absence.
  * Good Grief (Bastille) - Jaime misses Cersei while he’s at Winterfell.
  * Touch (Sheppard) - Sansa/Sandor - One touch is enough
  * Jenny of Oldstones (Florence and the Machines - GOT soundtrack) - Catelyn misses Sansa
  * Willow (Jasmine Thompson) - Ned/Catelyn
  * Demons (Imagine Dragons) - Joffrey/Sandor/Sansa
  * Rains of Castamere (The National - GOT soundtrack) - Jaime captive at Winterfell “You won’t break me down.”
  * Power (Bastille) - Sansa becomes stronger
  * Monster (Imagine Dragons) - The Hound
  * I Will Follow You Into the Dark (Death Cab for Cutie) - Ned / Catelyn & Dany / Mormont at times where they think their partners might die
  * On My Way (Sheppard) - Dany - the Unburnt
  * Burning Bridges (OneRepublic) - Dany/Mormont
  * Fireflies (Owl City) - Sansa
  * Vanilla Twilight (Owl City) - Robb / Roslin - missing her
  * Holy Ground (Taylor Swift) - Dany finally says yes
  * From the Grave (James Arthur - GOT soundtrack) Ned and Jaime missing Sansa and Cersei
  * Dear World (Echosmith) - Catelyn/Arya - Becoming a princess doesn’t mean giving up herself.
  * Somewhere Only We Know (Keane) - All the characters at points
  * Kingslayer (Ramin Djawadi - GOT Soundtrack) - Jaime’s Theme Song
  * Set Fire to the Third Bar (Snow Patrol) - Jaime/Cersei
  * Sparks Fly (Taylor Swift) - “Get me with those green eyes” Jaime/Cersei
  * Let the Flames Begin (Paramore) - Jaime and Cersei cannot regret being together, no matter the cost.
  * The Scientist (Coldplay) - Dany/Mormont
  * Wolf at the Door (Chloe X Halle, GOT Soundtrack) - Sansa / Cersei teaming up to keep Sansa safe from Joff.
  * Won’t Go Home Without You (Maroon 5) - Dany / Mormont
  * From Where You Are (Lifehouse) - Jaime/Cersei missing each other.
  * Everybody’s Changing (Keane) - Ned
  * On Top Of The World (Boys Like Girls) - Jaime/Cersei, only one night to be together.
  * Finale (Ramin Djawadi - GOT Soundtrack) - Dany’s theme song
  * Mhysa (Ramin Djawadi - GOT soundtrack) - Dany’s theme song
  * Run (Snow Patrol) - Arya / Sansa / The Hound - Escaping KL and him realizing Sansa didn’t make it out.
  * Waves (Sheppard) - Tyrion - Ever as free again as childhood w/ Jaime at Casterly Rock?
  * Set Fire to the Rain (Adele) - Sansa/Joffrey
  * Love Can Kill (Lennon Stella) - Robb struggling to let go of Roslin
  * Emergency (Paramore) - Robb’s fear that maybe something will happen to Myrcella as it did to Roslin.
  * Roar (Katy Perry) - Sansa/Joffrey
  * Dragon Age Inquisition Medley (Freya Catherine) - Sansa’s struggling through her time in KL
  * Almost Lover (Jasmine Thompson) - Sansa losing her childhood innocence and letting go of how she wanted to see Joffrey.
  * Reason to Believe (Dashboard Confessional) - Ned going to the Sept of Baelor to ‘confess’
  * Wunderkind (Alanis Morisette - Narnia Soundtrack) - Myrcella journeying to Winterfell, and kind of a theme song for her in general.
  * Bad Blood (Bastille) - Mormont wishing Dany would let go of the past.
  * Holy Water (Big and Rich) - Sansa - “Some things must be borne.”
  * Baptize Me (X Ambassadors, Jacob Banks - GOT soundtrack) - Sansa wants to go home so much
  * See You Again (Carrie Underwood) - Ned/Catelyn
  * Chasing Cars (Snow Patrol) - Jaime/Cersei - “Forget them; no one matters but us.”
  * Realize (Colbie Caillat) - Mormont/Dany
  * My Heart (Paramore) - Dany realizes she needs Mormont.
  * For You to Notice (Dashboard Confessional) - Mormont/Dany
  * Something’s Missing (Sheppard) - Jaime - His choices
  * Who Am I Living For (Katy Perry) - Myrcella
  * She Is Love (Parachute) - Sansa / Sandor
  * Signal Fire (Snow Patrol) - Dany/Mormont
  * Bad Blood (Taylor Swift) - Dany’s Anger with Mormont over his betrayal
  * Act of God (Tapani Siirtola - GOT Soundtrack) - Battle at Winterfell
  * This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (Taylor Swift) - Sansa/Joffrey
  * The Planets Bend Between Us (Snow Patrol) - Robb and his confusion between feelings for Roslin and feelings for Myrcella.
  * Tell Her You Love Her (Echosmith) - Ned’s advice to Mormont re: Dany.
  * Till I Fall Asleep (Jayme Dee) - Mormont/Dany during the time she’s angry with him.
  * Out of the Woods (Taylor Swift) - Mormont/Dany are they finally really okay again?
  * Bright (Echosmith) - Myrcella starting to fall for Robb
  * When Can I See You Again (Owl City) - Myrcella misses Robb even overnight and always looks forward to seeing him again.
  * Up To You (Echosmith) - Mormont - “She doesn’t need me anymore, but I want her to want me.”
  * Long Live (Taylor Swift) - Forming alliances, working together; the not-small-council.
  * Miracle (Paramore) - Mormont won’t let Dany give up on the chance to love again.
  * Hands of Gold (Peter Hollens, GOT Soundtrack) - Jaime
  * Hollow Crown (Ellie Goulding, GOT Soundtrack) - Dany’s thoughts on Renly and those who oppose her.
  * My Immortal (Evanescence) - Robb struggling to get past Roslin while knowing he has to marry Myrcella.
  * The Great Escape (Boys Like Girls) - Arya and Ned escape King’s Landing
  * No Air (Glee cover) - Cersei & Jaime trying to exist apart.
  * Still Into You (Paramore) - Ned/Catelyn still going strong after all these years.
  * Sweet Caroline (Neil Diamond) - All the babies born along the way
  * Shut Up and Kiss Me (Echosmith) Sansa / Sandor - “Why don’t you want me?”
  * Fight Song (Angelica Hale) - Sansa decides to try to trust Cersei to try to make her life less horrible.
  * Hallelujah (Paramore) - Ned and Catelyn determined nothing will come between them.
  * Keep Me Crazy (Sheppard) - Jaime / Cersei - Back to King’s Landing for the first time in 3 years and on a mission — but not before seeing Cersei <3
  * Song for Zula (Phosphorescent) - Jaime’s anger about Stannis’s ‘proclamation’
  * Two Is Better Than One (Boys Like Girls) - She’s not Roslin, but he finds himself falling for her in a minute.
  * Promise (Simple Plan) - Mormont promises he won’t mess things up again
  * Make This Go On Forever (Snow Patrol) - Mormont, changing his mind and stopping reporting on Dany
  * Kiss Me Like Nobody’s Watching (Simple Plan) - Jaime feels no shame in his love for Cersei no matter what people say.
  * Dancing With Our Hands Tied (Taylor Swift) - Jaime knows he’s a mess but Cersei loves him anyway.
  * Kiss Me (Sixpence None the Richer) - Myrcella starting to fall for Robb
  * There She Goes (The LA’s) - Sandor thinks Sansa might be only one who can heal his heart.
  * Don’t Give In (Snow Patrol) - Sandor/Sansa “Be strong.”
  * Thunder (Boys Like Girls) - Sansa / Sandor, falling for you
  * Learning to Fall (Boys Like Girls) - Mormont when Dany pushes him out of her life
  * Come With Me (Echosmith) - All the couples at diff. Points.
  * Put Your Arms Around Me (Autumn Breeze Mix) - Texas - Mormont/Barristan/Dany “You let me believe you were someone else.”
  * I Was Here (Lady Antebellum) - Arya will make her own mark
  * Flying away (Sheppard) - Dany/Mormont - Can they move past betrayal?
  * We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together (Taylor Swift) Mormont/Dany - “If I look back I am lost.”
  * I Was Lost (Sheppard) - Sansa/Arya - Learning to Leave King’s Landing behind
  * Empress of Fire (Raney Shockne) - Southroners want Dany
  * Fear Not This Night (Freya Catherine) - Arya/Ned/Sandor - The escape plan will work
  * The Call (Regina Spektor) - Jaime promises he’ll come back.
  * Girl On Fire (Angelica Hale cover) - Dany
  * Call It What You Want (Taylor Swift) - Jaime/ Cersei “People will whisper, they’ll make their jokes. Let them . . . I only see what matters.”
  * Letters From War (Mark Schultz) - Catelyn struggles every time Robb rides off to battle.
  * A Song For Mama (Boyz 2 Men) - Robb contemplates his mother the night before he rides into his first battle.
  * Mama’s Song (Carrie Underwood) - Myrcella / Cersei conversation “But are you happy?”
  * Mother Like Mine (The Band Perry) - Catelyn Stark’s children think about their love for her wherever they are in Westeros on her name day.
  * Long Live (For King and Country) - Arya and her Nightsteeds; “I’m sorry, your grace, if you wanted a lady you should have asked for Wynafryd.”
  * Loser like me (Glee Cast) - Tyrion, Garlan - thoughts on Tywin’s harshness in their childhoods and who they’ve grown to be.
  * Teenage Dream (Glee Cast Cover: specifically, other version will be here later) - Ned’s reunion with Catelyn and thinking that when they’re together she always makes him feel young again and their love remains constant.
  * Marry You (Glee Cast Cover) - Theon’s debauchery the night before Robb’s Wedding
  * Umbrella (Train) - Robb’s battle guard; Ned’s new Kingsguard
  * Just The Way You Are (Glee Cast Cover) - Robb assures Myrcella a Stark can love a Lannister even if it’s not easy getting there.
  * Take My Breath Away (Berlin) - “Finally we can be together for true.” - Jaime
  * Today Was a Fairytale (Taylor Swift) - After Robb takes Myrcella to see the winter roses
  * Today I Met The Boy I’m Gonna Marry (Darlene Love) - Roslin/Robb, rather literally
  * Shape of My Heart (Backstreet Boys) - Jorah’s regret over his past actions and begging Dany to forgive him.
  * Somebody Like You (Keith Urban) - Eventually, Sandor has a new take on life, but can it come true?
  * Speechless (Dan + Shay) - “She still makes me speechless every time, and I don’t know how she does it.” — Jaime
  * I Choose You (Sara Bareilles) - Married twice, in love again and maybe this time he has it right - Dany/Mormont
  * Thinking Out Loud (Ed Sheeran) - Ned/Cat contemplate the future and the growth of their relationship
  * Perfect (Ed Sheeran) - Cersei/Jaime, future hopes
  * Amazed (Lonestar) - The depth of a marriage with more time to develop is both a beautiful thing and a consternation to Robb.
  * Grow Old With Me (Tom Odell) - Cat/Ned, it’ll last forever even when they’re old.
  * I Do (Jewel) - Dany/Mormont, one chance to make it work.
  * Just Say Yes (Snow Patrol) - Mormont/Dany - Desperation to make her understand.
  * Can’t Help Falling In Love (Haley Reinhart) - Robb/Myrcella, Despite the problems between their families, can they help falling in love?
  * I Was Made For Loving You (Tori Kelly) - Robb/Roslin, because scars are not always just on the skin but also on the heart.
  * Iris (Goo Goo Dolls) - Cersei. Hated and vilified throughout both the 7 Kingdoms and fandom, but she isn’t understood and doesn’t want to share her vulnerabilities.
  * You Can’t Always Get What You Want [But You Get What You Need] (Glee Cast Cover) What I tell Jaime regarding being a captive of the Starks. He does not appreciate my humor.
  * Brass Bed (Josh Gracin) Robb’s First experiences with both Roslin and Myrcella
  * Stronger (Kelly Clarkson) - Sansa/Joffrey
  * Clarity (Zedd ft. Foxes) - Sandor/Sansa “Why should I need her?”
  * Viva La Vida (Coldplay) - Jaime goes from golden knight to Kingslayer
  * Superheroes (The Script) - Cersei and Tyrion’s thoughts on never being as loved as Jaime.
  * One Foot (Walk The Moon) - Dany struggles during her journey through Northron Westeros: “Am I Queen of Nothing at All?”
  * Love (American Authors) - Dany’s super long ship voyage and trying to keep humor by saying one day they’ll look at it fondly.
  * A Sky Full of Stars (Coldplay) - Jon/Ygritte[ - this fic or next? Somewhere anyway]
  * On Top of the World (Imagine Dragons) - Dany is encouraged by starting to understand Westeros culture.
  * Weight of Living Pt. 1 (Bastille) - Jaime struggles with his past sins.
  * Wake Me Up (Avicii) - Bran’s frustration with his body and his youth.
  * Believer (American Authors) - Arya’s outlook on life
  * **The Proof of Your Love (For King and Country) - Each of the Stark children are tested and think of Eddard.**


	2. Moon One - The Lord of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb struggles to adjust to life as Lord of Winterfell with both his mother and father gone.

Moon One

The Lord of Winterfell

The late summer sun dappled the floor of the Godswood and made the red of the Weirwood tree’s leaves seem to glow like fire. Robb could hear the sounds of Bran and Rickon gigglingand screeching through the trees where they were playing in the pools fed by the underground hot springs. Something about it was strange to his ears now. A few months ago he’d have been with them. A few months ago Arya would have pulled Sansa in screaming. Arya and Bran would have been seeing who could make bigger splashes jumping in. A few months ago everything was different.

Now Robb was almost a man grown and with his father and sisters gone to King’s Landing, he was Lord of Winterfell. Then, Mother and Ser Rodrik had gone too. And now Rickon cried and clung to him and had nightmares, Bran couldn’t walk, Jon was gone to the wall, and Robb missed he and his sisters sometimes almost more than he could bear. Theon was still there and Maester Luwin, but Winterfell still felt empty and wrong somehow. He was glad to hear the younger boys sounding happy for once though, even if it only lasted a short time. He didn’t understand why it suddenly felt that a great chasm had opened between them. Was this what being a man grown was really meant to be like? Increasingly, he’d begun to spend time in the Godswood the way he could remember his father doing. As a boy, Robb hadn’t understood why his father spent so much time praying. He felt like maybe he was starting to understand now.

He stood and left the Heart Tree and the shouts of his siblings behind him. At the edge of the Godswood, he found Maester Luwin. He wasn’t sure if the Maester had been coming to seek him out or not, but he did have a letter from Mother. Robb felt a measure of cheer about that. They had not had word since she and Ser Rodrik had left. Robb took the letter to the solar and bid the Maester stay while he read it and then passed it to Luwin to read as well.

“What do you make of it?” Robb asked Maester Luwin, his forehead creasing.

The maester smiled wanly. “Perhaps the proper question is what _you_ make of it, Robb.”

Robb had been afraid of that answer. Some part of him deep inside wanted to fling something in frustration, but he checked the thought barely before it was even formed. It would be childish and there was no point in getting frustrated with Maester Luwin, who hadn’t caused any of this. So, he took a deep breath and read the letter again.

“At first… I would have said it seems like any other letter.” Robb said, running his hand over the parchment and brushing his finger absentmindedly over the seal.

“But now?” Luwin prompted.

Robb looked back at the letter. “It’s like a code. Sort of.” It wasn’t technically a code in the sense of the type of cobbled language he’d once made up with Theon and his siblings so they could send messages ‘secretly,’ and the words sounded like they came from his mother and the writing was certainly her hand. But it was not as direct as her writing normally was. This carried news from King’s Landing, a wish that she had been able to see his sisters to pass on the greetings they had all sent south with her, best regards from Father, a bit about how being apart from Winterfell had made her realize how much she missed Aunt Lysa and Uncles Brynden and Edmure and her Father— none of whom could Robb remember having met so either he hadn’t or he’d been too small to remember properly.

“Yes. Why do you think your mother writes as such?”

“In.. case the raven were to be intercepted?” Robb said, his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Likely so. Only someone that actually knows your Lady Mother well would be able to recognize that, however.”

Over the course of the next several minutes, the two puzzled out the major parts of the letter. Finally, Robb spoke. “This looks like Mother is saying things aren’t going as well in King’s Landing as she hoped they would. This all has to do with Jon Arryn’s death, doesn’t it? And that man who attacked Bran.”

“I suspect so.” Maester Luwin confirmed.

“Father’s instructions… aren’t just about strengthening Winterfell’s own guard.” They had already done that after the attack on Bran. Robb realized Mother and Father likely didn’t even know Bran was awake yet. That was definitely something he needed to include when he wrote back.

Father had sent instructions to other Lords of the North for Robb to pass on. Robb swallowed slightly but pretended he wasn’t at all nervous about the content of the letter. But he was. Once Lords started reaching out with instructions like this — fortifying things and increasing house garrisons — that often signaled significant unrest. Robb sighed.

“So, we need to reach out to Lord Tallhart and Lord Glover and ask them to raise 100 bowmen each and to fortify Moat Cailin to hold the Neck. Meanwhile, Lord Manderly should strengthen his defenses at White Harbor. And we’re supposed to keep Theon close so we can let him know if we need his father’s fleet.” Robb’s stomach clenched. “Those are all the possible points of invasion to the North.”

“Yes. They are.” Maester Luwin confirmed, drawing out a map and pointing out each of the points on it.

“Is the South going to declare war on us?”

Maester Luwin steepled his fingers as he stared down at Catelyn’s letter. It was a long moment of silence before he responded, “I hope not, Robb.”

&&

But it was as if Robb’s words had heralded some kind of dread premonition. They’d barely put down the letter when a knock on the solar door interrupted them. Maester Casales was without, and his expression was more grim than Robb had ever seen it before.

Casales was still a young man of only six and twenty. He was from Dorne originally and had come to Winterfell after completing his training in hopes of locating a castle in the North in need of his services so he might be able to learn some of Northern tradition and custom about which he was curious. Maester Luwin had offered to make inquiries on his behalf and, thus, he had remained at Winterfell and had been there for some months waiting for word about where his services would be needed. Both competent and kind, he had become well-liked around the castle.

“I thought you should see this right away,” He explained without delay. “It just came from King’s Landing.” He handed the letter to Luwin whose forehead creased.

Robb took the letter when Luwin handed it to him and felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. A year before he would have cried, retched, or maybe both. His father and Jaime Lannister had gotten into a melee in the streets of King’s Landing and eight men including Jory Cassel had been slain, his father was badly hurt, and Lannister had fled the city. Eight men.

“But why did they fight?”

“That’s the other bit of news that came today. Though until I got this I thought it was only rumor. Now, I’m not so sure. It’s said your lady Mother took Tyrion Lannister captive at the Crossroads Inn and rides for Winterfell with him so he can be tried regarding his involvement in Bran’s attempted murder.”

It sounded so absurd Robb might have laughed. His Lady Mother had found Tyrion Lannister in an Inn along the King’s Road and was bringing him captive back to Winterfell? He stopped suddenly. “Not Winterfell. Either the Eyrie or Riverrun,” he whispered, face paling. “That’s the part of the letter we couldn’t make sense of. The bit about missing Aunt Lysa and Uncle Edmure. She’s not bringing him to Winterfell. That was a ruse.”

Luwin sighed, “I think you’re correct, Robb. I had wondered why she sent this. This sort of letter carries risk, no matter how masterfully it’s crafted. If something had not delayed her —.”

“Something like finding Tyrion Lannister.”

“— Yes. Then she would have been able to come directly home to send these instructions to the Northern Lords herself and would not have had to risk sending a letter.”

&&

They worked through dinner, which was brought to the solar.

They prepared and sent letters to Lord Tallhart, Lord Glover, and Lord Manderly.

Robb found Theon and told him of everything that had happened. After vowing vengeance on Jaime Lannister for killing Jory, Theon had assured Robb that Lord Baelon would be prepared to help if needed and so would Theon himself. “Would that you could only exact that toll.” Robb had said, and the ghost of a smile had danced across Theon’s lips.

“I can, brother. Lannister’s only a man.”

“God’s blood, Theon! That really would set the South upon us.” Robb had said.

“I know it. I don’t mean to be rash. I wouldn’t find him anyway. I’m sure he’ll make sure he’s not easy to root out if he’s fled the city.”

Finally, after everything else had been dealt with, Robb and the Maesters began the tricky process of drafting a response to Catelyn’s letter. Working on it, Robb felt some mixture of pride and fear, though he tried to push the latter far from mind — it wasn’t very much like a man grown of him to be afraid, after all.

They puzzled over the proper way to word Robb’s response for longer than Robb had ever taken writing a letter before — well into the night.

“Do you think we should offer to call the Banners?” Robb asked at some point during the letter drafting.

Maester Luwin paused and looked at Robb very seriously and for a long time before he finally said, “You are Lord of Winterfell, Robb. Only you can make that decision.”

The weight of those words made Robb unspeakably weary.

“Not yet. We’ll wait and see what happens. The last thing we want is for the South to think we are going to invade _them_ — especially not with Father, Arya, and Sansa stuck in King’s Landing.”

“I think that is a wise decision.” Luwin confirmed. He seemed as if he was going to say more but then stopped until Robb bid him continue. Even then, it was several seconds before he broke his silence. “It is also a decision you may be forced to re-evaluate depending upon how this situation unfolds.”

&&

_Dear Mother,_

_It is with considerable pleasure that I learn of your intended return to Winterfell with Ser Rodrik. My prayers and best wishes travel with you for an uneventful journey and in hopes that you make good speed. You shall, I believe, find things here to be well under control, and you need have no worry on that account._

_Bran's health is much improved. He is awake and alert, and the wolf Summer remains at watch over him. Maester Luwin says we need have no further fear for his life, though he warns us that he shall remain a cripple hereafter and shall not regain use of his legs._

_Lord Manderly has sent word that he is undertaking considerable work at White Harbor. I am informed that similar work has recently been undertaken at Moat Cailin, as the sense seems strong that preparations must be made in case the weather should begin to turn. Such undertakings require a considerable amount of time, and whenever winter comes it shall reach the North before it reaches the rest of the Seven Kingdoms._

_Various others among the Northern lords send their regards to you and to Father._

_Your loving and obedient son,_

_Robb_


	3. Moon Two - No Going Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn doubts Tyrion's guilt in Bran's attempted murder

Moon Two

No Going Back

Catelyn Stark could not sleep this night despite being exhausted. Perhaps, it would have been more accurate to say restless sleep, if not outright inability to sleep, had been plaguing her for several nights now — ever since she had done this foolish thing. In a fit of frustration, Catelyn kicked the furs off and wrapped a robe around herself before going to sit in the window and look out at the night.

She should never have brought Tyrion Lannister to the Eyrie. At this point, she wondered what she had even been thinking — or not thinking.

What had she expected? That she would run to the Eyrie with Tyrion where Lysa would, what, help her put Tyrion on trial for what he had (or hadn’t?) done to Bran and then they would execute him if the trial found him guilty? That Lysa would be the same sweet younger sister she had always been even though Catelyn had been told that the years in King’s Landing had changed Lysa Tully? That while everyone searched for them along the road to Winterfell because she had said that was where they would be going, and it was the expected course, they would be safely in the Vale where she and Lysa would decide together what to do like two sisters relying on one another as they’d been raised: Family, Duty, Honor? If any of those things were what she had expected to happen, she had been sorely mistaken.

Instead, the whole affair had turned into the epitome of a mummer’s farce. Her ‘prisoner’ had spent a decent part of the trip armed and had her doubting whether he had even done the thing she had accused him of to begin with — which came with even more frightening and crushing consequences she didn’t even want to think about if he was, indeed, being honest. Meanwhile, Catelyn had found her sister as changed as her Uncle Brynden had warned her of when she had encountered him at the Bloody Gate many days before; she had lost track of how many days it had been at this point, truthfully.

Catelyn’s heart ached to witness what her sister had become: she looked ten years older with pinched features and had become absolutely paranoid with terror that whomever had harmed Jon Arryn intended to do the same to sickly little Robin. The boy did not even know his letters and was still nursing at Lysa’s breast like an infant. He had no comprehension of the serious nature of anything. ‘I want to see the little man fly, mother! Can I make him fly?’ The words spoken in Robert Arryn’s high pitched little voice made Catelyn shudder even beneath the warmth of the robe she wore.

She was not sure whether the room was actually cold or if it was only her own blood that ran cold in her veins. She stood and went to put another log on the fire, not summoning someone to do it for her in the middle of the night. The fire blazed up for a moment and Catelyn went back to the window, padding restlessly back and forth between the hearth and the window now.

Nothing had gone as planned. Right now, she should be back at Winterfell with Robb, Bran, and Rickon making the preparations Ned had told her to make in case. In case of war. She could remember his soft kiss and his reassurance ‘It won’t come to that.’ But Catelyn was too practical to believe such empty reassurances; both she and Ned knew that, but he’d told her anyway. Her Ned was such a good man, always trying to keep those he loved safe. She already missed him terribly. They had been apart for nearly a year during Robert’s Rebellion, but they had barely known each other at the time. How far they had come since then…

But that was what she _should_ have been doing. Instead, she was in the Eyrie having dragged Tyrion along with her while she watched in horror as Lysa decided that rather than focus on the crime Catelyn had brought him here for ostensibly committing, that she would put him on trial for the murder of Jon Arryn. Never mind that she had absolutely no proof beyond Tyrion’s surname that he was the Lannister who had murdered Jon. Despite Catelyn’s continued reminders that Tyrion was _her _prisoner, not Lysa’s, the whole situation had spiraled out of control more quickly than Catelyn could have ever predicted.

Moreover, she had also learnt that Lysa had been keeping Tyrion in the Eyrie’s infamous Sky Cells. Catelyn had, herself, never seen the Eyrie’s ‘dungeons,’ but she had heard about them: mere three-sided shelves cut high into the cliff walls and left completely open to the sky, wind, and elements with floors that sloped down. The cells were barely five feet between back wall and open sky with the Waycastle Sky six hundred feet below. It was said to be the only dungeon in Westeros where prisoners were said to be welcome to escape at will — simply by jumping to their deaths. Catelyn’s jaw clenched when she thought about it.

Where had this gone so horribly wrong? More importantly, what must she do to rectify it? If there was one thing she knew, it was that Tyrion would not get a fair trial at the Eyrie. Any hope she had had of that had been quashed like water thrown over a fire once she had gotten a good measure of Lysa over the last few days. ‘Lysa, you are a Tully too. Have you forgotten the last of our house words? Honor. Is this thing you are doing honorable?’ Catelyn thought, sitting again on the window and drawing her knees up to her chin as if she were some little girl. ‘Are you so blinded by your fear, Sister?’ It was one thing to believe Tyrion might have had something to do with Bran’s attempted murder when she had been told by Petyr that the dagger used by the assassin had been Tyrion’s own blade. It was a whole other matter to blindly assume that Tyrion had killed Jon Arryn purely because he was one of an entire family of people who bore the surname Lannister. Catelyn wondered if Lysa even cared. Would she settle to avenge Jon’s death with any Lannister death, guilty or not? Catelyn bit her lip knowing the answer even though she wished she didn’t.

Of one thing, Catelyn was certain. She had caused this disaster and she needed to do something to fix it before it spun any more out of control than it already had. And it _had_ spun out of control — spectacularly so. She just wasn’t sure _how_ to fix it. There was no point in sitting here doing nothing. Catelyn picked up her sewing which she had left sitting on the trunk at the end of her bed, but her attention wasn’t on it. Within a few minutes, she tugged too quickly and her silk snarled into such a bad knot she was forced to cut it out. Further examination revealed stitches messier than Arya’s could have ever hoped to be. Irritated, Catelyn stuck the needle into the cloth and childishly flung it on the bed — as if that would somehow help her mood. She knew it wouldn’t but did it anyway.

Growing increasingly pent up, Catelyn left the bed chamber and went into the little solar beside it. The few books and papers of importance she’d brought with her sat neatly stacked on the writing desk. Also, there was the letter she had received from Robb days before — just after arriving at the Eyrie (how had it already been days?) She smoothed the paper beneath her fingers. She’d done it so many times that it barely curled anymore. It wasn’t news she wanted. If anything, it would only serve to complicate the situation further.

To an unfamiliar eye, the letter looked like casual sundries. It was, however, a carefully worded response to the instructions Ned had set her — the things she was supposed to do ‘in case of war.’ She had passed the instructions on to Robb and Maester Luwin in her own carefully concealed pleasantries after realizing her course was to be delayed. Robb had replied in kind with his own ‘sundries.’

_Various others among the Northern lords send their regards to you and to Father._

It was that line which worried her. It had taken her a few times reading it before she figured out what it meant. He’s going to call the banners! Catelyn had realized, heart pounding in her throat.

Catelyn had returned another letter to Robb advising him (carefully) to be patient, prudent and not rash, but Catelyn knew her words would be ignored completely if further trouble occurred — particularly with her a world away at the Eyrie. She had reminded Robb to be wise and seek counsel from Maester Luwin, but she still did not feel easy about the situation.

She stood again and went back to the window in her bedchamber. The moon had barely moved in its trajectory across the starry sky above. Night clung like a cloak that refused to be flung off. She recognized that she was just putting off doing what needs be done: she must go and talk to Tyrion Lannister and get some direct answers. She had thought of doing it for days, but he would only insist, had already insisted, that he had not attempted to have Bran murdered. But could she believe that? Could she trust the Imp? Indecision had held her in its vise-like grip for days, but she would go mad if she didn’t start to seek some answers soon.

Further, with every day that passed, it seemed more likely that, to Catelyn’s utter horror, Lysa really was going to honor Robert Arryn’s request to ‘see the bad little man fly.’ And Catelyn had at least enough doubt about Tyrion’s guilt to recognize that that was a very poor idea. In fact, even if Tyrion had been completely guilty, killing him in the Vale would enrage the Lannisters to the point that war would be inevitable. And she had created this entire mess — Gods be good. Were it only that she had simply left Tyrion be at that inn and gone home to Winterfell like Ned had told her to do.

Perhaps praying for guidance in this matter would help. Catelyn had always found much solace in prayer to The Seven. If nothing else, it would be a better use of her time than sitting here watching the moon refuse to move.

Without a maid to help her dress, Catelyn simply wrapped herself tighter in her robes and left her hair in its sleeping plait. She moved through the dark halls of the Eyrie passing from pool of light to pit of shadow between each of the sconces in the walls until she reached the sept. It appeared no one had recently been there, for the candles had been gathered away from the feet of the statues and put back in the box that usually held them for neat keeping between uses. Catelyn stood for a moment in the doorway, simply preparing her mind for prayer and trying to still her worldly thoughts. The Seven around her helped as she stood in the center of the room and simply bowed her head for a time, reminding herself of her place in the world, humble before the Seven. She wondered if this was what Ned felt when he went into the Godswood to pray to his wild, Northern Gods and thought it must be at least similar. She hoped it was.

She took a candle and lit it, shading the tiny flame with her hand to keep it from being snuffed out. Kneeling, she carefully placed the candle at the feet of the Crone. The statue’s wise eyes seemed to peer back at her even though the statue itself was mere stone and only a tool of the Faith — just like a prayer wheel or the Seven-Pointed Star. ‘Please grant me the favor of Your wisdom in this as in all things. Please guide my feet that they may walk only in Your holy light and guide my words that they may be spoken in Your name alone and that Your influence will be upon me that I might make the decisions of Your will rather than mine own.’ She stayed in silent prayer for a time longer before she finally rose with the conviction she needed and left the sept, her candle for the Crone still glowing at the foot of the statue.

&&

The Eyrie’s Gaoler, Mord, had looked at Catelyn in disbelief as she placed a silver stag into his palm in exchange for ‘a word with your prisoner and your silence,’ No doubt Tyrion had tried to offer him gold to buy his freedom, but if he had, based on Mord’s expression, Catelyn was willing to bet that the gold had been in promissory form. If Mord found her middle of the night appearance in a shift and robe to be odd, he did not comment. It did feel very strange to be sneaking about the Eyrie in nightclothes to see Tyrion Lannister, but Catelyn had no desire for others to question her actions at the moment; she knew too few of the answers herself.

The impact of the icy night air took Catelyn’s breath away when Mord pulled open the heavy door to the sky cell Tyrion was kept in. Despite the chill, he had only one thin blanket. Catelyn was cold even beneath the layers of her shift and her robe, and it was certainly thicker than the threadbare blanket Tyrion was huddled beneath.

“You got a visitor! Just pound on the door when you want out My Lady.” Mord laughed — at least she took it for a laugh — as if there was some joke she’d missed. What could possibly be amusing about the situation, Catelyn did not know.

Tyrion stared at her with mismatched eyes while Catelyn took in the tiny cell with its missing fourth wall, sloping floor, and sickening height. Her instincts screamed at her to pound on the door with all of her might to let her leave this place, and she suddenly had no questions about why so many men were said to have jumped to their deaths from these cells.

“Ah, Lady Stark. Welcome! Have you come to see the fine quarters Lady Arryn has been so kind to provide?” His tone was expansive — as if he was telling a jape, but Catelyn thought it must surely be a front. He took advantage of her silence. “Or perhaps you’ve come to accuse me of further crimes.”

Catelyn stopped him with a single upheld hand. She did not have it within her to make light of this situation. “Did you hire someone to kill my son?”

The glimmer of his jape left his eyes and his tone then. “No. I did not.”

“Then why did the man who would have spilled his lifeblood carry your dagger?”

Tyrion looked at her for a long moment before he said, “Lady Stark, we have been through all this before, have we not?” He pulled himself to a sitting position where he could lean against the wall. “I already told you that the dagger was not mine. Little Finger lied to you, and he is playing you for a fool at my expense!”

Catelyn sighed and pressed her fingertips into her eyes until colors exploded behind her eyelids. When she opened them again, she gingerly lowered herself into a sitting position against the wall. Even the change of posture caused a fleeting feeling of panic due to the sloping floor and the tiny space. Gods. Yes, they had been through all of this days ago.

Perhaps he sensed her lack of resolution, for the Imp pressed his advantage then. “Little Finger lies. That is what he does. You cannot tell me that you never learned that about him along with all the other delightful things he insists the two of you learned together as—.”

Heat flamed into Catelyn’s cheeks. “I told you that isn’t true! Gods be good!”

“And I told you it isn’t true that I tried to have your son murdered.” He saw the doubt in her eyes and pressed again. “I can see from your face Little Finger’s tale about what he did with his undoubtedly similarly sized cock bothers you just as much as much as the assumption that I attempt to have little boys murdered in their beds does me. Though from your expression, it would seem that the price of a maidenhead is highly more embarrassing than murder, but then again you are Ned Stark’s —”

“Stop!”

Catelyn’s face was, Tyrion reflected, perfect Lannister crimson.

Catelyn was not sure whether it would be more embarrassing to say nothing or continue to argue for her virtue. And, though she was still flustered, something Tyrion had said began to churn in the back of her mind. Much as she didn’t want to think about the words, she did. ‘Things he insists the two of you learned together.’ As children would have been the next part of that. The memory floated through her mind almost lazily — a beautiful summer day at Riverrun.

_Petyr practically giggled with delight as he lifted the cloth out of the basket he’d brought once the three of them had all clustered into the spot he had shown them between a shrub and a wall in the garden. The basket was full of a jam-and-nut-based confection molded into little squares — firm on the outside but soft inside and rolled in sugar to hold it all together. “Ooh! They look delightful!” Lysa exclaimed. They tasted delightful too. Like fruit and rosewater and sugar all in one perfect bite._

_“Where did you get these? They’re very good.” Catelyn admitted, chewing one of the treats. They made her fingers sticky. Though, since Lysa was younger she was worse off and had gotten it on her dress and Petyr had it all over his mouth. All of them were more than a little sugar-dusted by that point as well._

_“From Cook!”_

_“But… we were supposed to stay out of the kitchens. Septa said that Cook is busy preparing for the party tonight and we mustn’t get underfoot.” Catelyn said, slightly concerned now. If the adults found out they had disobeyed, they would get into terrible trouble from Septa._

_“I didn’t get underfoot. She wasn’t even there. She was in the store-room. I saw these laying out and I took some. There were lots of them, so she won’t even miss them!” Petyr pointed out gleefully. But, somehow, Catelyn thought that the treats did not taste as good as they had the first few bites. Older than the other two, she knew she should set a good example. But the treats were good and Petyr had said Cook had a lot of them._

_“And she can count as well.” Said Cook staring over the wall at the three children in their hiding place all covered in sugar. “Which one of you took these without asking?” Though, given what she had overheard, it was likely that she knew who the thief was. The three children squirmed under the woman’s fierce gaze. “Well! Out with it! Or shall I be forced to fetch Septa Gregoria?”_

_Petyr finally said, “No! It was me. I took them.” He paused and a look that was incredibly contrite came over Petyr’s face. “Only I…” He averted his eyes and fumbled with his sugar-covered clothing._

_“You? Out with it!”_

_“I… I’m very sorry and.. I .. I don’t want to get him in trouble is all or I would have said something before. Please don’t punish him or the girls!”_

_Cook looked at Petyr in confusion. “Who do you not want to get into trouble?” Her face was starting to look less angry now as she took in Petyr’s humble expression. “Out with it!”_

_“The kitchen boy. He said I could take them.” He muttered, lamely, casting his eyes to the ground._

_“Jonah?” Her expression shifted into one of something more like curiosity than irritation. “He said that you might have some?”_

_“Yes. But I don’t want him to be in trouble since he’s your helper. So I didn’t say anything.”_

_“Oh Lad. Jonah won’t be in trouble. He helped to make them, so I suppose he can give them away to you children as well.”_

_“So, who’s in trouble?” Lysa finally piped up._

_“No one is in trouble. It was only a misunderstanding. I thought that you children might have taken these without asking, but I can see I was mistaken.” She was quiet for a moment before she added, “But it’s Septa you’ll be in trouble with if you don’t go and get all of the sugar off your clothes before she sees you. Off with you now. And give me that.” She grabbed the now-empty basket._

_They were all quiet until they were alone again and finally Lysa said, “But did Jonah tell you that you could take the treats?”_

_“Of course not. But he wouldn’t get into any trouble whether he had or not.” A small, sly smile crossed Petyr’s features and settled in his grey-green eyes._

It was the same contrite look Catelyn had then seen displayed more than once throughout their childhood whenever they had caused some sort of mischief. Was it the same look he had worn when he told her about the dagger and how he had lost it to the Imp? _But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t! He was like a brother to me, and he didn’t even know Bran. They never even met. We’ve not spoken in ten and five years — not since he and Brandon fought and he was sent away. This doesn’t make any sense_. Her head was throbbing.

Tyrion must have seen the doubt in her eyes even though she hadn’t shared the memory. She didn’t need to. Her face betrayed her easily — unlike Petyr’s cool, crafted expression of innocence.

“You really did not do this thing, did you?” She asked, but a feeling deep in her gut told her she already had her answer, though the ramifications of it she couldn’t even begin to process.

“No. Nor was the blade ever mine.”

“But it did belong to Petyr.” She said quietly.

Tyrion thought about it for a long moment before he said. “Little Finger tells just enough of the truth to make his lies believable, Lady Stark. No doubt he did lose the dagger at the tourney the way he describes. Just not to me. As I said, I don’t bet against my family. I also became a good deal poorer that day thanks to my dear brother.”

“But… if there were questions about the dagger and whom it belonged to…” Catelyn began, slowly putting the pieces together.

“Then whether the catspaw was his or not, Little Finger would have been very quick to choose someone with a better motive than himself to pawn the blame off on.” Tyrion said. Catelyn realized then how tired he looked and how weary she felt.

“Why you?” _And would it be anyone else in your family?_

“I promise you I wish I knew the answer to that more than you, Lady Stark. Provided I get out of this place, perhaps I’ll pay Little Finger a visit and ask him why I was so fortunate. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts.” He was quiet a moment. “However, right now it’s rather looking more like I’ll be taking up the hobby of trying to learn to fly.” The way he japed about his probable death at Lysa’s hands nearly knocked the air out of Catelyn. He must have noticed her stricken expression because he said, “Does it make it any better if I’m sad about it?”

Catelyn thinned her lips. “No. It doesn’t. But you will get out of here. I brought you into this godsdamned mess, and it is my responsibility to get you back out of it.”

Tyrion looked at her with an amused grin. “I am sure Lady Lysa will be happy to hear that. No, Lady Stark, the sentiment is very kind of you. Unfortunately, the number of deaths I’m rumored to be responsible for continues to rise. It’s quite a staggering count for such a little Imp.”

“Lysa has no proof of who killed Jon Arryn. And until she has rather a solid bit of proof, it will be too soon for me to allow someone I brought here to be thrown out the moon door for Robin Arryn’s entertainment.” This whole affair rankled Catelyn in more ways than she could count.

“You grow ever more honorable.” Tyrion responded, drily. “I’m only curious what you intend to do. Lysa seems to respond ever so well when you remind her that I am ‘your prisoner’ as you put it.”

There was an added throb against Catelyn’s temples.

&&

By the time she had reached her chambers, Catelyn felt weary to the bone. Unfortunately, it seemed that the long night was only just beginning. She jumped and nearly cried out when a shape — a man — came out of the shadows in her room. “Cat, it’s all right! It’s only me.”

“Nuncle!” A breath that turned into a would-be laugh escaped her. Her heart was still pounding against her chest. Sure enough, standing in the candle light and now out of the shadow was only Brynden Blackfish. But his lack of belonging there caused a line of worry to appear between her brows. “You should be at the Gate. And it’s the middle of the night.” The second was almost an afterthought. Everything had become so chaotic and non-sensical at this point that why shouldn’t her uncle be in her bedchamber in the middle of the night?

“I should and it is, but I’ve had word you needs know of.” The way he said it gave Catelyn a feeling that she was not going to like whatever word he had brought. “First, you should see this.” He handed her a letter. She realized it was addressed to her and bore the Stark direwolf seal, but the seal had been broken already. Catelyn looked toward Brynden questioningly.

“Apologies, Cat. I took the liberty of opening it. The raven who brought it had been badly injured. It’s amazing the poor creature even survived. I found the poor bird at the Gate when we changed guard. I brought it up for Maester Colemon to tend to it.”

“But this isn’t the word you brought?”

“No.”

“But it has to do with it?”

“Yes.”

Catelyn’s head was swimming as she turned her gaze to the letter. She recognized Robb’s handwriting. This had to be the response to the letter she had sent him urging his caution regarding the banners. Her eyes scanned the parchment with increasing worry.

_Dear Mother,_

_It was with great anxiety that we awaited word of you and of Ser Rodrik when you did not arrive back at Winterfell as was planned. The roads, as you well know, are often dangerous and we feared what might have befallen you along the way. As such, it is with considerable relief that we received word of your safety._

_I would that my letter bore better tidings. Recent events well known to us both have forced my hand, and I am required to call upon the loyalty of our bannermen. On the morrow, I ride for Moat Cailin, as do they._

_I understand the urgent cause of your delay, but I implore you to return to Winterfell as soon as practicable. Bran's health is stable, and Rickon is very much himself, but both desperately need a mother's love and care._

_The word that has reached us here in Winterfell of the exact nature of the events in King's Landing has been quite confused. I do not wish to ask a full account by letter, but am most interested to hear of it upon your return._

_Your loving son,_

_Robb_

It was not lost on Catelyn that Robb had redacted his usual loving _and_ _obedient_ son.

No doubt that was because she had cautioned him regarding calling the banners and he had done it even so. _But why, Robb_? What recent events did her son mean? What was the nature of events in King’s Landing? What did he believe she knew? Catelyn’s mind churned out questions far faster than her weary mind could have hoped to fill the blanks. There was a growing dread in the pit of her stomach as she looked up at her Uncle.

His words seemed to come from very far away. Catelyn felt as if she were drowning, a ship taking on water.

“Catelyn, they tried to execute Ned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who caught the low-key Narnia Tribute


	4. Moon Three (New) -- Our Saving Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange happenings come to pass in King's Landing, and Cersei is left to clean up the mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm glad to be back with another chapter. Those of you reading both this and Bound got spoiled - a chapter of each in a single night!
> 
> Some updates.  
\- I've created a project for getting plotting ideas from all of you on current and future projects. You can find that here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739858/chapters/51862978  
\- Playlist text will get minor updates later this evening. Thank you to Highflyer for recommending the addition of Song for Zula. New songs with be bolded and at the end. Spotify playlist will also be updated later this evening.  
\- As requested, a few playlist songs that might fit this chapter: Power is Power, Home, Light of the Seven, Natural, I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Everybody's Changing, Reason to Believe, Any Cersei themes or Ned themes  
\- Thank you for reviewing: Highflyer, Joan_Of_Arc, and jjj222
> 
> Enjoy! I hope you love reading this as much as I loved writing it!

Moon Three (New)  
Our Saving Grace

_Strange cloth against skin that felt naked and chilled without fur. Senses that seemed dulled, an alarming sensation indeed — half deaf practically, and all the smells are missing. Weird front paws — long toes and a functional dew claw that all worked both independently and together. But they felt too weak to walk upon. Strange center of gravity. Two instead of four. Strange mind unfamiliar, expansive, thoughts overwhelming, cramming in, almost enough to make her draw back in distaste. But if she goes away, she will not be able to protect her Pack. She has no body of her own any longer, so there is only this. It’s a little easier to manage during sleep when there are less thoughts. It will serve, she supposes._

&&

Sansa woke with a gasp like coming up from under deep water. She bolted from the bed and was standing in the center of the room before she was even quite fully aware and blinked as the cold of the lonely, far-away chamber in Maegor’s Holdfast seeped into her bones and reminded her of everything. She went back to bed.

The sensation of being watched was stronger than ever tonight. She dreamed of that sensation, but the dream was shifting. It was as if the watching was coming from within herself, which made even less sense than if there had been a guard posted inside her room rather than in the hallway. The guards in the hallway were Lannister guards, and somehow she didn’t feel as easy as she had when she was in the Tower of the Hand with Fat Tom outside her door.

She wondered where her father was and if he was okay. ‘He’ll be okay. As long as he does all of the things the Queen and Joffrey tell him to do. As long as he does everything he’s supposed to, we’ll be okay.” It had become almost like a mantra that she repeated over and over to herself now.

Joffrey had promised he would be merciful, and Joff was good and kind, and she would marry him and they would have children with his golden hair and her blue eyes and live happily here in King’s Landing. And the Wall wasn’t such a bad fate. Perhaps her father could even like it there. After all, the Black Brothers defended the North — the whole of Westeros — against the Wildlings. He would find happiness in defending the North. And her father was a strong soldier. He would be an asset to the Watch. Jon was there and so was Uncle Benjen. And Arya, well, Arya could bloody well go back North. Sansa would send her back up North when she was queen. Arya wouldn’t complain. She hadn’t wanted to come to King’s Landing in the first place, and Sansa didn’t want her here. She ruined everything. Arya was the reason Lady was dead. If she would have just behaved herself for once and ridden in the wheel house like she was supposed to and not played with that vile butcher’s boy and fought with Joff then Lady would be fine. Sansa would be able to bring Bran to court or maybe even to the Citadel and all the arch-maesters could look at him and maybe they could fix his legs so he could be a knight after all. She could snuggle baby Rickon. And she could see her Mother again. Everything would be fine if Father would just see reason! And he would. She knew he would. Father was wise. Yes, he’d been wrong about wanting to send her and Arya back to the North on the Wind Witch and break her betrothal to Joffrey, which was why she’d reached out for the Queen’s help, but he’d been right about most everything else.

Lady. Sansa still dreamed of Lady. She dreamed of her almost every night, but dreams weren’t the same as if Lady could really be there with her. But when she dreamed of Lady, she felt safe and happy. During the dreams, she felt a strong connection with Lady. Inexorably, the dreams had been getting stronger somehow, as if the connection was growing. But that was just because Sansa missed her more. She sighed and crawled from her bed and went to her trunk. She knelt and opened it and then began to paw carefully through all of her dresses until she reached her small clothes. She reached inside one pair and carefully withdrew two things.

First, there was the doll her father had given her. She felt bad for telling him she was too old for dolls; he’d just been trying to make her happy. She clutched the doll to her chest. Then, she removed a small pouch — white with grey embroidery she’d done herself — the Stark Direwolf and words on one side and a silvery scene of winter snows with Winterfell in the background on the other. It had taken weeks. She had made it a few years ago, and she still remembered how Septa Mordane had praised it.

She pulled the string at the top and reached inside. She took out a generous length of grey fur tied tightly together with a golden ribbon. Lady’s fur and a ribbon the color her eyes had been. Sansa brought the fur to her nose. It still smelled like Lady somehow. Her father had cut it and given it to her before he sent Lady’s body home to Winterfell to be buried. She would have like to have worn the little pouch beneath her clothes, always. She couldn’t, though. She dare not give the Lannisters a chance to find it now. When she’d been moved into Maegor’s, she’d carefully hidden the pouch where no one would find it. Late at night, when she was sure no one would bother her, she would take the pouch out and hold Lady’s fur against her heart.

“I wish you could be with me in life like you are in my dreams.” She whispered, biting her cheek to try not to cry. “You would make things better, wouldn’t you?”

She sighed and carefully put everything back in her trunk and then went back to bed. There was no point at staying awake at this hour. Even so, it took quite some time before she drifted into a fitful sleep again.

And when she was finally asleep, it was to dream again of Lady. Though, this dream was not as strange as some of the ones she had had. In some of them she had dreamed as if she herself was lady, and that was disconcerting. This was better. This time she was at Winterfell in the Godswood with Lady at her side. Only now, Lady was big. She was as big she should have been by now and her face had evened out to have less of a ‘puppy’ look. She looked more like a young adult female wolf now. Though the growth rate of direwolves was much different than for normal wolves, so that wasn’t surprising. She had already been almost the size of a regular wolf when. ‘No, don’t think of it,” She chastised herself. Nothing good would come of dwelling on Lady’s death. But there lady was before her, a young teenage direwolf. She was beautiful. She came to nuzzle under Sansa’s chin the way she used to do as a pup and realized she had to practically kneel down to make that work. Instead, she leaned over and mussed Sansa’s hair with a gentle mouth. Sansa wrapped her arms around Lady’s neck and buried her face in Lady’s pelt as her tears came, unbidden as they were.

“My Sansa, I am with you. Your father did what he must to keep you and Arya safe. I do not begrudge you. I am with your family and you have my love and protection to what useless extent I can give it without a physical form.” Lady said, nuzzling against Sansa’s cheek even though Sansa didn’t let go of her or stop crying.

The truly odd thing was… the wolf was not speaking. Her mouth was not moving. And Lady had never ‘spoken’ like that before. And Sansa became aware of something different. She was hearing the voice from within her own mind. Her heart pounded and she realized it was not just the voice. There was a presence in her mind. She was not alone within herself. It felt queer but yet not disconcerting.

“No, it’s my fault. I should have told the truth. I didn’t want to get Joffrey in trouble. He’s.. He’s … nice he just has… a temper sometimes is all. I didn’t think…” Sansa was near hysterical with tears. “I’m so sorry, Lady.”

The wolf wrapped her neck around Sansa’s body and used one grey paw to simply push Sansa up against her chest. She batted her as effortlessly as a cat bats a mouse, and yet Sansa was not afraid. “Listen to me, my Sansa. It is not your fault. You did not know. You could not have known. You were not brought up in a world of cruelty as can be found at court. This world is not like Winterfell. You made an honest mistake. It takes a great deal of courage to protect someone we love. You care for Joffrey and you were worried about him. And Nymeria is my sister, but she should have known better — even protecting Arya, she need not have been so fierce.”

Sansa swallowed, tears still coming out in gasps that made her hiccup. “I do love Joffrey; I do, I do that’s why I’ve done everything I’ve done!”

“I know, my sweet Sansa. Love is a precious gift, and you have a heart which can give much love. Never lose it.” But her voice in Sansa’s head was getting a little fainter now, and Sansa was feeling tired even though she was dreaming and a little light headed besides.

“Lady?”

“I can’t stay much longer, but you need to know that hard things are about to happen, but it will be okay. You must not lose your faith in the goodness that is in the world.”

“But.. But.. You’ll.. You’ll be there right!? Now that you can talk to me! Where are you going? Lady!?” But the wolf was growing paler and farer away.

“It takes… much energy…” but Lady’s voice in Sansa’s mind was so far away she wasn’t even sure she had heard her correctly. It didn’t make sense anyway. What took much energy? And when Lady had disappeared from her she was crying all over again and all the more.

When she woke up the tears on her cheeks were real and she was tangled in her sheets. Her hair was a frightful mess. She did not understand what had happened. Lady had been inside her head. But that was a dream. Dreams aren’t real. Dreams are just figments of the imagination. Once Maester Luwin had talked about greenseers, but those had died out a long time ago, and she certainly wasn’t one of those. It was just a dream. Just a dream. She told herself again and again. But it felt like the most real dream she had ever had in all her life. The vivid color, the sensations, it made her mind all muddled and confused. Seeing Lady and losing her again was worse. Sansa got up and went to retrieve the fur cutting and brought it back to bed with her to hold against her heart as she tried in vain to calm herself down.

* * *

Eddard Stark had played the Game of Thrones and lost. He had failed Robert and his family both. All for his precious honor. He had allowed Cersei the chance to leave with her children, and by so doing he had tipped his hand. Then, Little Finger had betrayed him. Everything had gone spectacularly wrong to be sure.

He had never truly been able to envision how being in a dungeon could make a man go mad until now. The darkness was absolute, the rushes on the floor reeked of urine — or perhaps that was the chamber pot that had not been emptied since he had first been brought here. There were no windows, and the utter darkness and silence — silence all except for the crying and moaning of dying men in cells — was almost more than he could bear. Then, there was the business of his leg. At one point, it had been properly tended to, but he was quite sure that had been ruined. His cast was filthy and smelt horribly of rot, the leg no longer looked straight, and the pain was so intense it took his breath away every time he moved his leg even slightly. He wavered between feeling hot with old memories running through his mind that he had no reason to think of now and feeling so cold he could hardly bear it. That meant he had a fever.

And then there had been Varys. Damn him. Admit to treason he never committed, take the black, but save Sansa’s life. His own life was not worth the ruination of his honor, but Sansa. Sansa his sweet baby girl. And when Varys had left him alone in the dark again, Ned smashed his fist against the rocks in the wall so hard he saw stars and crushing pain resonated through every fiber of his being. Sacrifice his honor or see Sansa die. What choice did he have, really?

So, here he found himself on the steps of Baelor’s Sept prepared to make a confession to a treason he had never committed hoping it would save at least one of his children. The tolling of the bells sounded like a dirge whether it was meant to be or not. To either side of him were gold cloaks; as if they expected him to be able to run in his current condition? Eddard was haggard and exhausted. He had lost a stone maybe even two, and he had been a lean man before that. His leg was in terrible shape. He had had very little to drink. He could barely stand. Really, the gold cloaks were holding him up more than anything.

He looked and saw a knot of high lords. Joffrey was there, of course, arrayed in crimson Lannister colors and wearing a crown. Cersei wore mourning, but even her black dress was slashed with crimson. The Hound was wearing the white cloak bestowed upon him. Eddard could still remember when he had taken the cloak but refused the knighthood, and his lips curved very slightly at the corners. Varys (damn him) was there and so was Little Finger who had betrayed him.

Bile rose in his throat, and Ned could not look at Petyr Baelish without wanting to fight loose of the gold cloaks and go slam a fist into Petyr’s smug face. Whatever love he had once borne for Catelyn was clearly gone now. ‘Or, perhaps he was simply getting me out of the way by sending me to the wall while he took my wife,’ Ned thought bitterly to himself.

None of that was the worst. The worse was Sansa. She wore a dress of sky-blue silk and had her auburn hair done in the style of the court. She looked safe and well-cared for. Perhaps his untrue admission of guilt would be worth something for true, then. But, it was still not something he wished his eldest daughter to witness — him giving away his honor and his truth to try to keep her safe. He had no other choice, so he spoke.

At first, his voice was so hoarse from disuse that he could barely be heard. He had to clear his throat and try again. “I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King.” The bitterness of those last words was not lost on him. He had never wanted this. He had agreed because Robert was his friend, but now Robert was dead and he was friendless and alone at his moment of greatest need. Perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps he should have said no to Catelyn when she had encouraged him to accept. It was too late for should haves and maybes, though.

He forced himself to go on. “I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men.” It took every bit of self control he had to keep his voice from shaking, though whether it was in sadness, anger, or an abject sense of betrayal, he wasn’t sure anymore. “I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

It took all the self control Eddard Stark had ever had to utter those words. It made him feel sick at the lies, at the loss of his honor — though what had his precious honor done for him so far anyway? Then, things seemed to happen in slow motion as a rock came sailing out of the crowd and struck him full in the face, its sharp edge cutting into his skin. He could feel the warmth of his blood trickling from the deep gash on his temple. The impact of rock on skin and bone was cringe-worthy, but far worse was the fact that it had made him instinctively pull back; that had moved his leg. A cry of agony clawed its way up his throat. Black swam at the corners of his vision from the pain in his leg, but he fought it.

He could see he was not the only one being attacked. The Kingsguard had moved in front of Joffrey and Cersei to protect them. No surprise that not a soul moved to protect him, not that it much mattered at this point. Not much at all mattered at this point. His shame was full on his face, and it was perhaps the worst punishment Eddard Stark could have ever endured.

Through his pain, he was aware of the High Septon kneeling before Joffrey and the Queen. Most of his words just felt like a buzzing in Ned’s ears after the hit with the rock, but he did make out “The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?” Then, all Ned had to do was wait for the pronouncement that would take him from his family forever — all but Jon, but that was good enough. At least he would have Jon. But Catelyn. The other children. The thought of rarely, if ever, seeing all of them again filled him with a kind of grief he had never before felt.

Through the haze of pain both emotional and physical, he heard Joffrey speaking, but he barely had it in him to care what the boy playing at king had to say. They had already taken everything away he had to live for: his honor, his family, Winterfell. And he had been foolish to think he could keep Sansa safe. She belonged to Cersei now, whether she realized it or not.

“My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.”

Eddard turned sharply to see the face of his daughter, who was smiling. She was so beautiful, so precious. His heart swelled to see her. He knew she was far from safe, but the smile on her face and the spark of hope in her Tully blue eyes — so much like Catelyn’s — was enough for him right now. He could not speak to her now, but Ned hoped Sansa felt his love for her through his gaze.

But then Joffrey was speaking again. “They have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished.”

Was not taking the Black punishment?

“Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!” Joffrey exclaimed.

It all happened too fast for Eddard to truly react, to even try to flee. And he would not have even so. At the very least he could die with dignity. He would not run — could not have run even if he had been so inclined. The agony in his leg was intense. The noise of the crowd in his ears was a roar; somehow, above it all, he heard a hideous keening that he recognized as Sansa screaming.

In that moment, he would have done anything to get to her, but found himself being thrown to the marble by the gold cloaks such that his head and chest hung out over the step. There would be no headsman’s block or final words for him, it appeared. He did not know what he would have said anyway. He did not know if there was anything to be said. Perhaps he could have reminded Sansa that he loved her and he was proud of her, but how far would those words go? Was she still angry with him for trying to send her and Arya away to safety?

Eddard caught a glimpse of Sansa for just a moment. He almost wished he had not, though that probably made him a coward along with the list of other crimes he had apparently committed. Sansa had fallen to the ground sobbing hysterically as she clutched at Joffrey’s breeches. He shrugged her off hard and sent her reeling back on the cold marble the way one would swat at a troublesome fly while he looked at the King’s Justice approaching him. Ilyn Payne. Eddard got a glimpse of him as his stomach churned violently. In Payne’s hands was Ice. It was so cruel he might have laughed. He was to be beheaded with his house’s own ancestral sword. And so he laid still and waited for death.

Sansa’s body slammed into the cold, hard marble and blood filled her mouth from biting her tongue. Sobs tore from her body with a forcefulness she had never before felt. No, No, No! She was blinded by her tears and the anguish in her chest overcame her. She wanted to cry out, to scream her father’s name but all that came out was a hideous sound she couldn’t even be sure was coming from her at all. She wanted to grab for Joffrey again, but he had moved away from her and an iron grip held her still, forcing her back to her feet. She didn’t even know who had pulled her back to her feet, nor did she care. She was beyond caring about anything at this moment. She was blinded by her tears, and maybe that was a good thing. She knew she needed to turn away; she knew she should not watch, but it was like a horror in front of her eyes that she could not escape. She was frozen, unable to move as the King’s Justice raised Ice over his head.

_“I can’t stay much longer, but you need to know that hard things are about to happen, but it will be okay. You must not lose your faith in the goodness that is in the world.”_

_“But.. But.. You’ll.. You’ll be there right!? Now that you can talk to me! Where are you going? Lady!?” But the wolf was growing paler and farer away._

The memory came somehow, unbidden and unexpected. It felt so long ago: It belonged to another lifetime. Was this what Lady had meant? How could she not lose faith that there was goodness in the world? Her father was about to die for a crime that Sansa knew, deep in her heart, he never would have committed. No matter what she might know she needed to say to make the Queen happy, her father would never have betrayed Robert, his friend. Even if he was a mean, drunk old man.

‘Lady, help! Please!’

She did not know where the unbidden thought had come from, but it resonated through her mind with the force of swords colliding in battle. It filled her. No, the words were not filling her. It was like a presence was within her, growing larger and larger and too much for her body to hold. The energy of it made her stagger despite that she was being held. She felt as if her head was going to explode. There was something inside her mind, inside her very skin.

_Humans. The amount of them was staggering. The degree to which her senses were accosted, overwhelmed, was nearly too much for her. She was trying, oh she was trying because Sansa needed her! She would do anything for her sweet Sansa. She was part of Sansa just as Sansa was part of her, and the pain that resonated inside Lady from within Sansa was of such an intensity that Lady was not sure how to bear it. She had to bear it. She had no choice. She needed to act if she was to help her mistress. She summoned all of the energy she could take from Sansa, using it as Sansa fell prone to the ground, her body belonging, now, to Lady. The wolf hoped she had not hurt Sansa too much in taking her, but there was no time to waste, no time to explain, only time to act if she was to save Eddard._

Later, Sansa would not remember seeing what happened. The last thing she would remember was crashing to the ground despite gold cloaks holding her by the arms.

Eddard was waiting for the end to come.

Over the years, he had passed a number of death sentences and, holding to the beliefs of the North, had carried through with those executions. He wondered if the Old Gods or perhaps Catelyn’s Stranger would come for him quickly and take him to whatever awaited them after this life was over. He wondered if he would be united with his father, Brandon, and Lyanna. He hoped so. He wondered if it would hurt, though he could bear pain — his leg was a testament to that. He wondered if it would be brief. From his peripheral vision, Eddard saw the flash of Ice’s dark, rippling Valyerian steel as Ilyn Payne raised it above his head. Instinctively his eyes closed as the blade fell.

_Summoning Sansa’s energy to such a degree came with a power Lady had not felt since her mortal body was taken from her, and it was exhilarating! She could feel that she was almost real, almost. She had never manifested to this degree. She gathered her energy within her haunches as she surged forward from Sansa and leapt high into the air, paws lifting from the ground, pelt rising from skin as wind flew past her and rippled over her fur and brought all the scents of the crowd to accost her nose. In Sansa’s head, she had always experienced muted human senses but not now. Not now! It was almost like she was herself._

Cersei, later, would tell Jaime she had never experienced anything like this. That she would have believed she was going mad except for the fact that every person who had come to Baelor’s Sept that day, in the thousands, to the summoning of the bells, had seen the same thing Cersei had seen, was seeing now. Of course, their accounts of it were all different and all kinds of mixed up, but they could no more deny what they had all seen than she could.

First, there was Sansa falling to the ground. Cersei had only noticed that because of the shifting of the gold cloaks, and she had thought perhaps Sansa had fainted. Really, that was for the best. The girl should not see her father die. Cersei herself was still trying to process what had even happened. They had all agreed about what would happen. Eddard Stark would take the Black. Without that they had no recompense to get Tyrion back, and while Cersei might have been happy to let her hated little brother stay in the clutches of Catelyn Stark, he was still a Lannister and it would not serve. Therefore, when Joffrey had proclaimed Eddard Stark’s death sentence, Cersei had reacted in something between disbelief and horror. She was not the only one. The small council was surging around her son, but he only held up his royal hand and would not hear them, calling for Ilyn Payne to bring him Eddard’s head. Despite being Queen Regent, she somehow found herself unable to open her mouth though she might try. Everything was happening too fast for her to process or intervene much as she might wish.

Suddenly, something that felt as forceful as a leaping body came hurtling through the crowd, buffeting people and knocking them aside as she passed — including Cersei herself. She only barely managed to stay on her feet to see that the creature leaping through the air was something that looked like it belonged in a fairytale rather than in life.

It was a direwolf. No, it was the _shade_ of a direwolf. It was wrought in silver light of its own making — glowing, shimmering. The light of the creature still showed its grey coloring, in a slightly muted fashion giving way to the light as if the body was only semi-solid. The only thing not basked in the silver glow was the creature’s eyes: those were perfectly amber gold just as they had been in life. Lady. It took Cersei a moment to recognize because the shade was the size the wolf should have been had she lived… Had Cersei not demanded her destroyed in place of Nymeria. Something low in her stomach twisted. Fear.

The wind of the jumping creature ruffled its pelt visibly as it leapt boldly into the air, soaring forward, its shimmering pool of light following, surrounding it everywhere. It — no she — Lady — moved. Cersei’s green eyes probably could not have been any wider than they were just now.

The direwolf slammed into Eddard’s prone body nearly pushing him off the edge of the steps with the force of her landing. There was not a sound of the wolf crashing into him, but Eddard’s body moved, twisted, sunk, pushed forward almost over the step, exactly the way it would if a real creature of the size landed upon him. Eddard’s hands scrabbled for purchase as the air was knocked out of him even as he tried to look over his shoulder, grey eyes widening in disbelief.

Ilyn Payne was so shocked that, though he could not check his swing, it was botched, a poor swing that was nowhere near Eddard Stark’s head. In fact, the swing did not reach the man at all. Instead, Ice fell through the air and cut deep, so very deep into the shimmering pelt of the direwolf, passing all the way through to the other side, rending her body nearly in half. No blood spilled from the Shade, and no sound came from her either. It was the expression that would haunt the mind for eternity. The wolf’s mouth opened in what surely would have been a howl of pure and absolute agony, her golden eyes showing the whites — more like opaque silver now — and then closing. Her teeth clashed together as her muzzle closed, every muscle tightening, slather running from her lips. A shudder ran from her head, down her flanks, through her legs and into the tail tucked beneath her.

No one heard or even saw Ice clatter to the marble steps and go spinning out of the hands of the King’s Justice completely, landing at the feet of the High Septon who jumped backward as if he had been branded. Swords were not for clergy.

Then, the direwolf seemed to dematerialize before their very eyes, disappearing into a last shimmer of light. Eddard Stark’s hands were clenching into the stone so hard his knuckles and fingertips had turned white, and his shoulders were wracked with panting breaths as he slowly turned himself onto his back to look up at the utter chaos going on around him. No gold cloaks moved to hold him down, but they didn’t have to. Ned didn’t think he could have moved even if he had wanted to. All the air was knocked out of him. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t speak, could barely draw breath. A pattern of hideous purple bruising was already making its way up his side; though he hadn’t seen it yet, he could feel it. — broken or bruised ribs to join the mangled broken leg — that hurt too. Black swam before his eyes, but he fought it. A memory wove its way through his mind unbidden.

_‘Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.’ And I killed Sansa’s. What folly have I done?_

At first, there was a deafening silence amongst the crowd of thousands gathered at the steps of Baelor’s Sept. Cersei had never heard a crowd so stunningly silent. She would have believed it impossible if she were not witnessing it for herself. Then, as suddenly as the silence began, it ended and the crowd burst into a clangor louder than a murder of crows. She struggled to pick any individual pieces out of the conversations. Eventually, Cersei was able to piece together various strands of thought.

They were telling each other what they had seen — or thought they had seen — as if to confirm they had not all shared some mass hallucination. “It was a wolf,” “No, a direwolf,” “It was neither wolf nor direwolf. No, at least not merely that. That was no natural creature.” “A monster.” “A shade,” said others. “The ghost of a creature that did not physically exist. Yet, it had wrought that.” “A sign,” said others. “A punishment from the Gods for trying to spill blood on a holy place, I tell you.” Some of the people in the crowd surged backward, leaving as quickly as the mass of observers would give them up. A few screamed. Some merely took it for a sign. One thing was for sure and certain, a thousand accounts about what had taken place at the Sept of Baelor that day had already made the rounds of King’s Landing by evenfall that very day. The rumors were sufficient to keep the tongues of King’s Landing’s denizens wagging for well over a fortnight.

From over the crowd, Cersei heard Joffrey’s whining voice “I told you to bring me his head, and I want it! I want it NOW. I will have the traitor’s head on a spike immediately! I am the King!”

Before Cersei could even begin to respond to that immature and infuriating display of immaturity, she heard a rough “Fuck that! She needs attention!”

The Queen turned to see Sansa Stark in the arms of the Hound. At a glance, she could see Clegane was correct. The girl’s face was as white as a sheet, ashen around her lips and eyes, and she was deathly still. Cersei’s breath froze for a second. Seven hells this day was not going well! “Is she…?”

“Breathing. Barely,” the Hound barked in a harsh voice.

“Maester Pycelle, see to her,” Cersei snapped in something between irritation and exhaustion, though the doddering old maester was already on his way toward them. The way Sansa’s head fell over the Hound’s arm reminded her uncomfortably of something that was dead. That had never been Cersei’s intent. Seven bloody hells, killing Eddard Stark had certainly not been her intent either, and that must woulds lead to a conversation with her son that Cersei was not looking forward to in the least.

“What will you have done with him, your grace?” one of the gold cloaks asked, kicking Eddard in the broken leg, which caused his face to pale to grey even though he did not make a sound, only twisted his lips together more firmly and screwing his eyes shut, jaw clenched.

“Mother! I said I wanted his head! I will have his head! Ser Ilyn finish what you started! What kind of an incompetent King’s Justice are you if you cannot even properly complete a beheading. Give me that.” He reached for Ice, but Payne pulled it back away from him. “I will have it! I will take his head myself!”

“Stop! Stop this, now!” Cersei’s voice was low and dangerous, as cutting as Ice’s blade. “I will not have you making a fool of yourself in front of the whole of King’s Landing. Go with Ser Meryn, and I will see to you later.” Joffrey opened his mouth to protest, but Cersei cut him off. “I will not suffer you acting with the maturity of an infant, Joffrey. Go. Now. I am still your mother, and I am the Queen Regent and you will stop having this fit right now. Be gone from my sight!” Cersei was shaking with utter fury as she watched Trant bodily remove Joffrey.

When she turned, she saw that the Hound was still holding Sansa in his arms. She looked between he and Pycelle. “Well, I suppose you had better go as well.” She was quite aware that Maester Pycelle was not strong enough to carry even a relatively small young woman.

“And what’s to be done with the traitor?” asked Boros Blount, taking the moment to give Eddard a sharp kick in the side that Eddard was sure would leave him pissing blood for days. He gritted his teeth to keep a scream of agony from leaving his lips and managed it — barely.

‘Seven hells! Do I have to be responsible for absolutely everything?’ Cersei wondered. And, for the millionth time since Jaime had left the city after the melee in the streets, Cersei wished so very desperately he was here with her. Then, she wouldn’t have to do everything alone. But he wasn’t there and she did have to, and that was just the way it was. “Take him back to the black cells. I’ll deal with it later.”

Finally, she looked down to the still numerous crowd beneath her. “Well, why are you still here? This mummer’s farce is over. Be off with all of you!” she exclaimed, the wrath evident in her voice. The crowd scattered like rats looking for cover when they were suddenly exposed. Cersei turned on her heel in a whirl of black and crimson silk.

She returned to Maegor’s and into her bedchamber where she sat and put her aching head in her hands. There was a stabbing in her temples that she could have likened to a Grumpkin coming out of her skull with a pickaxe. The morning had been perhaps one of the most stressful she’d had in any recent memory. She wished she had time for a bath with salts and oils to try to coax her head to stop throbbing, but she did not have that luxury right now.

She jumped in surprise when Blount entered her chambers. “Maester Pycelle is without.”

Cersei was incredibly tempted to tell him he could bloody well wait, but she realized this would be a poor decision if he might know something about Sansa Stark. A growing dread had begun to fill her stomach — barely less worrisome than the pounding in her head — regarding the girl. If Sansa Stark died and word got out that they had tried to behead Eddard Stark, there would be absolutely no way to prevent war.

“You have news of the girl?”

“I do.” Pycelle said.

“I would see her for myself.” Cersei said with a pained sigh.

“… As you wish, your grace.” Pycelle said, seeming slightly surprised. “But I must warn you, she has not woken.”

“Did I ask if she had woken?!” Cersei demanded, patience fraying more quickly than she knew she should allow it to do.

“No, your grace.” Pycelle said, bowing his head before he moved to lead her out of her chambers.

Cersei followed the Maester. He had settled the girl in chambers near to his where he could better tend to her for the moment. Sansa was bundled tight in a mound of blankets in the middle of a big bed with a pillow beneath her head. It would have looked comfortable, normal even, if not for Sansa’s face. She was nearly paper white without a drop of color in her cheeks. Deep purple circles that looked like exhaustion were beneath her eyes and even her lips held no color. She looked like death, and that made Cersei’s heart pound, though she forced her voice to remain calm. “Do not let her die, Maester.”

“I… your grace, I do not have any idea what exactly is wrong with the girl nor what treatment to give her. She has been as such since that, that thing seemed to come out of her. Initially, I thought she had just fainted in shock, but that is clearly not the case. She has a high fever and is not conscious. Nothing I have given her seems to make any difference.”

“Pycelle, I command it. Save her. If we are to lose her…” Cersei spoke no more, simply shook her head.

Pycelle bobbed his old head in acknowledgement. “Yes, your grace. I will save her.”

“Good.” Cersei turned to leave. She hesitated at the door for just a moment with her back to Pycelle. Then, she said. “What… was that creature?”

“Your Grace, I have not personally seen anything of its kind but I… believe it could be a shade.”

“A shade? Like magic? Magic is for children’s fairytales, Maester.” But she felt a cold chill pass through her body nonetheless as she thought about an old crone sucking a drop of blood off of her finger all those years ago. Gold will be their crowns and gold will be their shrouds.

And there was something else. Something that Cersei had not, and would not, tell Pycelle (or anyone else if she could manage); that shade, if it was in fact a shade, had been Sansa’s direwolf. It could not be doubted. Cersei had barely seen the creature a handful of times and it was now far larger than any normal wolf, but its features were unmistakable. And she remembered the way the direwolves at Winterfell had howled and howled after Bran… while he slept for days.

If only there had not been thousands of people to witness the event, perhaps Cersei could have found a way to still the rumors, to hush it all up. But there was no way. Was this their penance from the Gods (even though Cersei struggled to believe in the Gods) for mistreating Eddard Stark? Because deep, deep down Cersei realized that Eddard may have lost the Game of Thrones but perhaps, just perhaps his honor made him a better person than she. Too many questions that made Cersei incredibly ill-at-ease. She knew there would be no sleep for her this night. She would toss and turn until dawn without a doubt.

Now, she had to go and deal with her son who had very nearly — and might still be responsible for — setting the whole of Westeros to civil war. She could not think of a time she had been more furious or thought Joffrey more inept. She wondered where she had gone wrong in her parenting of him. She had not done anything particularly different with Myrcella and Tommen and they were joyful children. No matter what, Joffrey desperately needed to be taken in hand. She wondered what Jaime would have done if he was there or even her lord father. But they were not and it, like most other things, fell to Cersei to rectify.

She entered Joffrey’s quarters to find her son with a great sword, a sword far too large for him to swing, across his knees. Then, Cersei realized that the naked steel was not just any great sword. It was Ice. “Joffrey.”

“Mother,” he said rather passively.

“What are you doing with that sword?”

“Hm.. What do you think I am doing with it?”

“Joffrey, I am not of a mood to play games with you. Do you have any idea of the consequences of your actions today? Now _where did you get that sword_?” She enunciated every single word.

Joffrey shrugged petulantly, and Cersei wanted to scream at him. “Told Ilyn Payne to give it to me.”

“And why did you think to do that?” Cersei spat, her fury continuing to grow.

“Because he is the King’s Justice. He belongs to me, and I can command him to do as I will. And I commanded him to give me the Traitor’s sword.”

“We return to the question of what you intend to do with it.”

Again, he returned a question. “What do you suppose I intend to do with it? You are a smart woman, Mother. At least I believed you to be, but perhaps you are not after all. I intend to execute the traitor with his own—“

The blind rage that had filled Cersei and built throughout the day finally reached its breaking point when Joffrey insulted her. It was like a white, hot light behind her eyes. She lunged forward before Joffrey could have expected and sent the sword clattering to the floor, spinning across the room and then brought her hand across Joffrey’s face so hard it would leave a bruise for days, sinking her fingernails in too such that blood ran down his face.

Joffrey drew back from his mother in shock, his eyes neither shamed nor hurt but filled with anger. “You dare to strike me?! You presume too much, Mother!”

“I presume nothing! You are my son and I will discipline you how I see fit! You will listen to me and listen well!”

Joffrey’s mouth twisted in a nasty expression and his eyes were as hard as stone, but he did not speak.

“You have no idea of the ramifications of your actions. You are like a boy playing at being king! Your father taught you nothing of how to run a kingdom, quite clearly. Then again, he was worthless and ineffectual, so why am I not surprised. You very nearly sent the whole of Westeros into Civil War!”

Joffrey opened his mouth to speak, but Cersei cut him off.”

“No! You will listen,” She demanded. “You will listen, and you will hear!” Her voice was barely more than a hiss. “There are consequences to the things you do! Your uncle Tyrion is in the clutches of Catelyn Stark. If her daughter dies or if her husband dies we cannot use them to exchange as a hostage for —.”

“I do not care about the stupid dwarf. The Stark bitch can kill him if she wishes. He’s as useless as my father was. Why do you think grandfather has not named him his heir to Casterly Rock even though Uncle Jaime cannot inherit?”

Cersei wanted to hit him again. While she, to some extent agreed about Tyrion, she was not blind to the other consequences that would come with that. She might not move to avenge Tyrion’s death, but it would hurt Jaime greatly. And if he wanted to raise an army and move, he had the respect, skill, and gold to do exactly that. Jaime would not hesitate to cause a war. As a child, she had often teased him she thought he’d start a war purely for cause to fight in one. Regardless, for some reason Cersei had never understood, her twin liked the Imp. Moreover, Tywin Lannister would not suffer the murder of a son, even a hated one, in silence. And if they moved, so would Robb Stark who was now Lord of Winterfell in his father’s absence. If the Starks moved, that would probably also bring down the wrath of Riverrun and the Vale upon them.

To make matters worse, if Sansa Stark or, worse, Lord Eddard died in their care, not only could they not use them as exchanges for hostages but they would be incredibly fortunate if their deaths — even one death — would not raise the North and bring it down upon their heads. And, much as she hated the taste of the Stark family words in her mouth, Winter was coming. There would not be time for another harvest. If villages were ravaged, burnt, the smallfolk who worked the field killed, it was likely the populace and perhaps even they in King’s Landing would starve. Well, not them exactly. Not the Lannisters. Lannister gold could buy anything but…

“We are not in a position to go to war, Joffrey!” Her voice was higher pitched than she wanted, nearly losing control of herself again. “And that is what you are going to cause if you do not get your childish, petty desires under some modicum of control!” She pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew Joffrey had never seen her this angry, but she did not care. It was time he saw the consequences of his actions. And this was all she knew to do. “We, the country, cannot bear it and that is very nearly what you caused to happen today. Do you understand that?”

Joffrey just looked at her sullenly.

“Maybe here is something you can understand.” Cersei loomed over him and put her hands on the arms of his chair so her face was right in his. “Your hold on the Iron Throne is tenuous at best. There are many claimants who have fair reason to balk at your reign — let alone with a regent — .”

“Then I’ll kill them all!”

“Listen to me you little fool! You cannot just kill people for your own amusement! That does not keep your ass on the throne. And mark my words, Joffrey because they are the same words I told Eddard Stark —.”

“I don’t want any words you told that traitor!”

“I do not care what you want.” Cersei’s voice was like ice. It was so harsh it made even Joffrey draw back in surprise. “When you play the Game of Thrones you win or you die. And right now we are not winning. And so you will get yourself under control immediately! And you will pray to the Gods that neither Sansa Stark nor Eddard Stark die. And you will not cause one more shenanigan!”

Cersei went to sweep out of the room before she remembered Ice on the floor. “And one more thing.” She reached down to retrieve the sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. “Do not ever bare steel if you do not intend to use it forthwith!”

“What would you know about it?” Joffrey whined.

“A great deal more than you!” Cersei snapped. She could still remember all the lessons she had switched places with Jaime for during their childhood right under their father, instructor, and septa’s noses with no one the wiser. Cersei was actually quite an accomplished swordsman because of it. She could have unhanded Joffrey easily.

Cersei left then with intent to return to her own chambers, bearing Ice along with her until she was able to thrust it into the hands of one of the the Kingsguard. She would not regret her actions or wonder what she had done until hours later, and even then, she would remember the rage and wonder if she still had not done right. There were some things a good beating might cure Joffrey of, apparently. She was sounding more and more like her father every day, and she did not take that as a compliment. Nor could she change it.

“Draw a bath and leave word I am not to be disturbed under any condition short of a pronouncement of war,” Cersei snapped when she returned to her chambers. She wanted to believe that was a slight joke, but these days she really wondered. It probably fell flat. “And send to Pycelle for a goblet of dream wine!” She called after them as the ladies scattered.

Her ladies quickly did her bidding, getting together the tub, the hot water, and the herbs she preferred in her baths. Soon, there was steaming water in the tub and her ladies had let down her hair around her shoulders and she was just moving to put a foot into the water when there was a knock on her door.

“Gods’ blood! Whomever it is may the Others take them!” Cersei swore. She took the robe one of her ladies handed her and wrapped it about herself stomping to the door to see Meryn Trant.

“Whatever this is, it had bloody well better be important or it is your head I will have on a spike rather than Eddard Stark’s!” She exclaimed.

Trant barely had the good grace to look concerned. Cersei thought about slapping him too, but restrained herself — somehow. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms so hard they left half-moon indents that would probably bleed.

“Janos Slynt is without.”

“And without he can wait!” Cersei snapped, feeling at the end of her very thin rope.

“Ah, I think you will want to hear what he has to say.”

Cersei threw her hands up in frustration and said, “Then show him in.” She was already planning what she would do to both Trant and Slynt if their interruption was not something truly spectacular.

As it were, the interruption was something truly spectacular, though she did not recognize it as such right away. Slynt was standing in the antechamber holding a filthy, bedraggled boy by the arm quite tightly — tight enough to leave a bruise. The boy was short and very thin with messy hair all around the shoulders and Cersei could see lice. The clothes were too big and he was covered in dirt from head to toe, filthy. He also stank like he had not bathed in days.

“What is this?! I was not aware we are now taking in street boys!” Cersei exclaimed in a voice that came far too close to belying just how overwhelmed she was.

“I’m not a boy!” the boy exclaimed in obvious irritation. “And let go of me!” and she began to struggle all the more against Slynt. Cersei realized that Slynt had a black eye — a very prominent black eye. Surely this boy had not given him that. Surely a boy so small would not know how to….

It was only then, and after Cersei stared at her for a long moment, that she recognized Arya Stark. Cersei’s green eyes widened in disbelief. She had had the gold cloaks looking all over the city for Arya Stark for a over a fortnight and had started to accept that the girl was gone.

“Where did you find her?” Slynt opened his mouth to respond but Cersei cut him off. “Actually, I do not care where —.”

Very suddenly, Arya managed to jerk free of Slynt by kicking him in the back of the shin in the exact place one is likely to lose their balance if kicked — which he did given he wasn’t expecting the maneuver. Then, before Cersei could predict it, much less get out of the way, Arya came at her with a battle cry and fists pummeling her chest. “YOU TRIED TO KILL MY FATHER!” Arya shrieked at Cersei. She was hitting hard enough to cause numerous bruises. Cersei tried to grab the girl by the wrists, but she could not hold her still and the fists continued to pummel and then Arya kicked her with boots still on. One of them came perilously close to kicking her right between the legs.

Cersei let out a hiss of pain as she managed to grasp Arya by the wrists and spin her around. She crossed the girl’s arms over her chest and held her against Cersei’s own chest, wrapping her thighs around Arya’s bony knees rendering her unable to move. “Hold still you little Wildling!” Cersei exclaimed, trying not to gasp in legitimate pain from Arya’s fists and feet.

Still, the girl was struggling, and Cersei suddenly understood how Arya had given Janos Slynt a black eye. “UNHAND ME!” Arya shrieked.

Meanwhile, Meryn Trant and Janos Slynt were looking on the scene before them with their mouths hanging open.

“Are either of you imbeciles going to help, or are you merely going to entertain yourselves at my expense?!” Cersei demanded. Thank Gods for Jaime and all he had taught her or she probably would have been knocked out on the floor by now. Arya was still struggling, and it was taking every bit of Cersei’s strength to hold her.

Finally, Janos Slynt got control of Arya. He had her over his shoulder, with her head hanging toward the floor and his arms wrapped so tightly about her legs she wasn’t able to move, though it didn’t account for her hands slamming into his back or her mouth, and she was swearing to make a sailor blush.

“Did your Septa teach you to speak like that?”

“You killed my Septa!” Arya screamed. And that much was true. Most of the household staff left over, all of them actually, had already been beheaded and put on spikes before Lord Eddard had.

Cersei was losing a battle to a child not yet ten years of age, and losing badly at that.

“I cannot do anything with her like this. What did you expect me to do!?” Cersei demanded, gesturing toward the thrashing, furious, red faced girl.

“We… thought you would wish to… see her your g—.”

“You thought I would enjoy being assaulted by her more like? I am surrounded by completely incompetent fools, the two of you included! Take her to chambers in Maegor’s — I don’t care which ones. Then call women to give her a bath. Make sure she is scrubbed —-“

“I WANT TO SEE MY FATHER!” Arya shrieked, tears now running down her red face. She was still being held upside down, but this didn’t seem to hinder her from sounding like a harpy.

Cersei knew nothing to do except ignore her and continue. She could not cope right now. “Her hair will have to be shaved to deal with the lice. Burn those clothes and dress her in something appropriate. See that she gets some supper and send Myrcella’s septa to see to her after that. I will deal with her in the morning. Now go! And do not disturb me again!”

“….except for the dream wine?”

“Have one of my ladies bring it. I do not wish to see either of you again until the morrow,” Cersei all but growled. This had been one of the most disastrous days she had muddled through in a long time. So much hung in the balance waiting for fate or the Gods or whatever else to decide what would come to pass from all that had happened.

Then, they all stood there just looking at her for a moment.

“Be gone!”

And, finally, she was alone in her room save two of her ladies who moved to take her robe from her and let her sink into the bath, preparing to wash her hair. Cersei ordered more hot water brought and went down to her neck in the near-scalding liquid, for that was how she liked to take her baths. She laid still and let the women wash her in soft candlelight and the embers from the hearth as she tried to still the misery occurring in her head. She did her best to focus on their hands rather than her pain. She could only find herself wishing their touches were Jaime’s. Oh how she missed him and longed to see him. He would have known what to do about all of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AN — Chapter could probably alternatively be titled ‘Cersei’s bad day’ 
> 
> Cersei’s comment: “Alexander who had the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day: I see your stag and raise you a dragon.”)  
_______
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you have time, please leave me a comment :)


	5. Moon Three (Waxing) -- Keep Careful Watch Over My Brothers’ Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb leads his forces south and calls upon his deepest courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: 
> 
> Content: A few of the scenes in the next pieces of Moon Three (over the next couple of chapters) are modeled after scenes in the AGOT. Wherever possible I have tried to avoid using exact quotes and change the scenes up. Some situations are the same and some are different. So, I will offer a disclaimer that none of that belongs to me. This amazing world belongs to G.R.R.M! (For the love of all the gods, finish the book, George!) 
> 
> Moons: As you’ll notice, this chapter got much longer than intended. As a result, I’ve gone back to edit the last chapter to be as a ‘new moon’ and will continue accordingly. You can basically assume the content discussed happened at that ‘time’ during the month. E.G. Something written in a Full Moon document would have happened say two weeks later than a New Moon event. 
> 
> Beta, Reviews, & Bookmarks : I would like to thank SkySamuelle for help with beta work and helping with plot holes and Hejsokoly for helping with plot holes. Thank you for reviewing to: Alex, Joan_of_Arc, Guesty, Einzell, and Bronzeblues, and LadyWolf13 So many people bookmarked! Thank you to Lilnathy13, Jester18, SkySamuelle, Makoto21, Daniela_2007, Seagull51, Dhamus, Mrsmadeline_clancy, bookishme1D, and Adhara_Isilme. I answer every review and reviews really encourage me to keep writing! 
> 
> Some songs that may particularly suit this section are: I See Fire, Halo Theme Song (Instrumental), Home, The Voice, Somewhere Only We Know, and Waves and Die Young. Of course, I simply listen to the entire thing on shuffle, but those are some to pay special attention to. 
> 
> Plotting Document: I really appreciate everyone who commented on my plotting document to suggest things they’d like to see in this and upcoming projects. Feel free to keep jumping in over there with more ideas. Thank you to Guest, ForceSmuggler, SkySamuelle, Mlg, BronzeBlues, LadyWolf13, and Utni for amazing ideas! Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739858/chapters/51862978
> 
> Changes to the Playlist: You’ll notice I’ve moved the new songs from last time (the Paramore ones) mixed into the list so they won’t all be side by side. Both Spotify link and the list here reflect the changes. New songs, as usual, will be at the bottom in bold. The Playlist is now 8 hours and 42 minutes. Definitely the longest I’ve ever made!

* * *

In the false light of pre-dawn, Robb slipped from beneath his heavy pile of furs and shuddered in the cold. While the hot springs normally ensured the keep was warm, the fire was only embers now, and Robb’s fingers were clumsy with sleep and cold as he dressed quickly, anxious to get warm. Grey Wind sat up and stretched beside the pallet where he slept and then sat back on his haunches, watching Robb dress: boots, breeches, shift, bleached leathers, chainmail over that, and his sword and dagger at his waist. Still shivering, he pulled a fur trimmed cloak over his shoulders.

Today was the day Robb and the bannermen were marching south to Moat Cailin. It felt strange not to know when Robb would see this chamber, or Winterfell, or even his siblings again. The thought made him anxious. He wondered if he was making the right decision to put so much on Bran’s shoulders. He would be left as The Stark in Winterfell and would have to take over the duties Robb had been managing as Lord of Winterfell until their father or Robb returned. It was too much to put on the shoulders of a seven year old boy. Barely a few weeks ago, an unknown assassin had tried to kill Bran and very nearly succeeded; if it hadn’t been for the actions of Mother and Summer he _would_ have succeeded. The thought made Robb shudder. And then there had been that incident in the wolfswood too.

And what of Rickon? Rickon already went about Winterfell clinging to Robb’s legs most of the time and crying for their mother and father. He would think Robb was abandoning him as well. Guilt curled in his gut like a cat curled about one’s ankles.

‘I don’t have a choice,’ Robb thought. ‘They tried to kill Father, and Mother is still in the Vale or Riverrun,’ they still weren’t positive which stronghold she had taken Tyrion Lannister to. ‘And they have Arya and Sansa. I have to go. Winter is coming.’ Robb bit his lip and wished, not for the first time, that Jon were here. He would know what to do. He would know if Jon was making the right decisions.

He had not heard anything from Mother since he’d made the decision to call the banners. From what little he knew of the South, Father was still under arrest and Sansa and Arya had not been seen outside the Red Keep since the incident at Baelor’s Sept. And that incident was the preoccupation of a good deal of what little news they had had at Winterfell. Robb still wasn’t sure what to make of that. The tales were odd and far-fetched. The only point they seemed to agree on was that a great creature had leapt on top of Ned Stark and dissolved into nothingness when Ilyn Payne struck it with a sword. Beyond that, the few riders who had visited had no conclusive facts, and most of what they’d heard had been third or fourth hand anyway and might not even be accurate.

The Karstarks had arrived the previous day, the last to meet them at Winterfell. Many other bannermen would meet them all along the way south. While Robb did not look forward to leaving his little brothers here, he knew it was time to march if he would do at all. Winter Town was full to bursting as were the grounds both outside and inside Winterfell: Twelve thousand men, three thousand armored lances, and among their number three or four hundred knights. By the time they arrived at Moat Cailin six thousand more would join them. If they did not march soon, his host would eat the land bare. His host. The thought felt odd in his head. When had he gone from Robb-the-boy to Robb-the-lord?

The last of the stars were still in the sky and the moon hung low on the western horizon when Robb descended from his chambers. Someone asked him about breaking his fast, but he shook his head. “I’ll go to the Godswood first,” he said turning with Grey Wind at his heels. He had had less time to go as of late with the large company of men to contend with. The Godswood was now the only place he felt at peace. He could not reveal that; he had to be strong and without doubt. The men could not see his hesitation, nor could anyone else.

A movement out of the corner of his eye sent Grey Wind into a flurry, dashing from his side in a second and scattering grass and dirt where his claws had gained traction from the ground. He was as good as his namesake before he disappeared after the rabbit, both of them gone into the trees before Robb could say a word. There would have been no point anyway. Grey Wind would come back by the time they needed to ride out.

Robb’s feat crunched through the hoarfrost that coated the grass. Autumn would be here very soon now he knew. He heard two dogs snarling over meat in the kennels. He diverted his path and stopped there for a short bit to say goodbye to Shaggydog.

When Robb reached out a gloved hand to pat him, the direwolf slinked back out of reach, green eyes glowing eerily. “Come here. I’ve got something for you,” Robb said in a soothing voice. The wolf took one step, then another as he noticed Robb had a piece of dried jerky in his hand. He came forward and grabbed the meat and let Robb pat him for just a minute before he darted backward into the shadow of the kennel that was his and snapped up the meat while he regarded Robb. “You have to take care of Rickon.” Robb said softly. “You know that right?”

The black direwolf tilted his head at the name of his master and took a couple of careful steps back toward Robb again. “He doesn’t understand, you see. He’s too little to understand. So he’s scared.” Shaggydog stepped forward again. Once. “He thinks we’re all leaving him, but we’re not leaving. We’ll be back.” Two steps. “But I don’t know how to explain that to him. Maybe you can somehow.” Shaggydog came the rest of the way and finally put his great head in Robb’s hands and let Robb rub him behind the ears and under the chin. “There’s a good boy. Oh yes, there’s a good wolf.” Robb soothed. Sometimes he worried for Shaggydog as much as he did his brother. “That’s why I need your help. Because I can’t explain it to him. But you can’t bite people if you want to stay in the Keep,” He continued softly as the wolf stared at him with luminous green eyes and finally pressed his huge black head against Robb’s chest.

Rickon had turned as wild as a winter storm since Robb had told him he was leaving. Robb understood his anger and confusion. In the last six months, he had lost Mother, Father, Arya, Sansa, Jon and almost Bran. He flew into angry rages and cried inconsolably by turns, was plagued with nightmares, and often refused to eat. On one occasion he had punched and kicked at Old Nan when she tried to soothe him with a lullaby. Another time he disappeared into the wolfswood and then for a longer time another day into the crypts. That had been the worst; when they found him, he was clutching a rusted iron sword, yanked from one of the statues’ hands. He had been sitting back into a corner with an angry look in his eyes. “Let me ‘lone!” He had yelled at them. Then, Shaggydog had come out of the darkness in a black streak, slathering at the mouth like a green-eyed demon. He’d bitten Gage and tore out a huge chunk of flesh from Mikken’s thigh before Grey Wind had been able to subdue him. After that, he’d had to remain chained in the kennels to keep him from hurting anyone else, and Rickon just cried even more.

Robb found another chunk of jerky in his pocket and gave it to Shaggydog and continued rubbing his head, ears and ruff.

“That’s as calm as I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Robb and Shaggydog both jumped at once and Robb slipped from the crouch he’d been in and landed on his ass on the cold ground, looking up to see Maester Casales who offered him a hand up. “I didn’t realize anyone was there.” Robb admitted, his cheeks coloring.

“My apologies. I should have said something sooner,” Casales responded, but Robb merely grinned and shook his head, accepting the young maester’s hand and hopping to his feet. Shaggydog was back in his kennel, the moment broken as he looked at them both with darting green eyes.

“I don’t understand.” Robb said sadly, looking at the wolf. “He’s turned… feral.” Though, it wasn’t as if their wolves were ‘tame’ either.

“No,” Casales said, looking at Robb with his dark eyes that seemed far wiser than his six and twenty years. Like most other Salty Dornishmen, the maester had smooth olive-toned skin, dark eyes, and dark hair that hung in ringlets.

Robb looked at him in confusion and Casales clarified his thoughts. “I don’t think he’s gone feral. Each of your wolves is very connected to you. When Bran was hurt, they all howled for days — but especially Summer. Remember, he would not eat or rest. All he did was pace and howl.”

“I remember,” Robb said, shuddering slightly.

“Shaggydog doesn’t know how to handle Rickon’s fear and anger and sadness any better than Rickon does. All he knows is that the human he’s bonded to and trusts most in the world is full of anger, hurt, and fear. So, Shaggydog believes he too must fear. And he can’t express it any other way than to bite, snap, or cower.”

“That makes sense,” Robb said, another wave of guilt washing over him. Maybe if he wasn’t leaving… but he had to. He had no choice. There was already fighting in the Riverlands and there wasn’t even technically a declaration of war at this point. “Can anything be done?”

“I’m not sure,” Casales admitted. “I can try to work with him some. I have to admit I have rather more experience with ravens than wolves — of any sort but…”

“I would appreciate it,” Robb said. “Anything you can do to help. I’m worried for Bran and Rickon.”

Casales put a gentle hand on Robb’s shoulder. “They will be all right in time. You’ll see. Sometimes we all must weather difficult storms. Starks have been doing so for thousands of years.”

“Winter is coming.” Robb said, letting out a breath and giving a nod of resolution.

“Indeed, but I’ve learned that you Starks are a rather hardy lot.”

The corners of Robb’s mouth curled into a warm smile. “Thanks, Maester Casales.”

“You’re welcome Robb. Do you want to come and break your fast?”

“Soon,” Robb said, glancing up at the sky to see that the last stars were disappearing now. He’d have to hurry. “I was on my way to the Godswood and thought I should…” he gestured at Shaggydog. He refused to say he had thought he should come and say goodbye. It wouldn’t be goodbye. He refused that notion adamantly. “I’ll be inside soon.”

Casales nodded, “I’ll go and see to Bran then. He’ll want to be up to say goodbye.” He didn’t mention Rickon, which Robb had a feeling meant that the toddler was still storming the way he had been the previous night while Old Nan was trying to put him to bed.

Robb stopped after a couple of steps and looked back to the Maester who was still watching Shaggydog but looked back at Robb then, seeming to sense his gaze. “Bran will be all right too. I’ll see to that.”

Robb smiled once more and stepped back to shake hands with the Maester. “I appreciate it. Really.”

It had been decided that, with Moat Cailin not a permanent stronghold in centuries and thus without a maester of its own, that Maester Luwin would journey south with Robb to provide counsel and care to those who might be wounded and that Maester Casales would remain in Winterfell to see to its occupants. Robb was eternally thankful that the citadel had not yet found another placement for the young Maester and had sent word that he would like to keep him on at Winterfell for the time being.

Robb left the kennels behind him and continued on his trek across the grounds until he reached the Godswood. Within a couple of minutes of walking, the sounds of Winterfell coming to life and the men at arms waking died away behind him and there was only quiet as he made his trek through the silent woods toward the Heart Tree.

He looked deep into the waters of the black pool that stood beneath the tree, knowing how cold they would be in the chill dawn. The temperatures were changing and there was more late summer snow these days. Autumn would surely be here soon. Robb had never seen a Winter. He had been born in 283 during the short Spring that preceded the beginning of the current summer in 284. Some said it might become the longest summer in recorded history if it lasted much longer. Robb prayed that it would. That was especially true if they would ride South to war. If the summer was not much longer, there would be no more time to bring in more harvests before autumn, and its temperatures were often unpredictable.

When Robb reached the Heart Tree, he knelt in front of it and bowed his head, taking some deep breaths and just trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. He placed a slightly shaky hand on one of the massive roots of the heart tree. Maester Luwin had told him that a weirwood tree would grow forever if it was undisturbed. Robb hoped Winterfell’s Heart Tree would grow forever.

“Please hear me, and show me you are with me. I need you.” He whispered.

Robb didn’t think it was completely in his imagination that the leaves of the Heart Tree and those around it moved slightly for just a moment in a wind that didn’t exist. The Old Gods were there with him.

“I’m almost a man grown, but I’m ashamed to admit that I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. I don’t know if I’ve made the right decisions. What if the choices I have made are completely wrong? Mother urged me not to call the banners, and so did Maester Luwin. But I’ve done it anyway. What if that wasn’t the right thing to do. Please show me Your wills and guide me to show me what to do. I feel so alone, but I can’t tell anyone. I cannot show my fear, and I cannot look back or.. I.. I’ll..Just please be with me. Please see me in the South. I know at least some Heart Trees are there. Please see me and guide me and help me, because right now I don’t feel like a man almost grown. I feel afraid. Father once told Bran that the only time a man can be brave is when he feels afraid, but I don’t feel brave right now. I just feel scared. Really, really scared. All of these grown men are looking to me to make decisions that Father would make so much better than I am; I just know it. I’m so afraid I’ll let all of them down. What if I’m not what they need? I’m just a green boy; maybe I’m Lord of Winterfell, but that’s a technicality, Father is the true Lord of Winterfell. I know they’d rather have him or at least a true man grown. One with experience.”

They’d made that quite clear, testing him daily. Roose Bolton and Robbett Glover did so straight out when they each demanded a battle command ; Maege Mormont had made a point to tell him he was young enough to be her grandson, but she’d be happy to have him marry one of her granddaughters; Lord Cerwyn had taken the liberty of actually bringing his daughter along. She was homely and never looked up from her plate to meet Robb’s eyes or say one word to him the entire meal they had shared; Lord Hornwood brought gifts every day and never asked a thing — until he did, a holdfast to be taken from his grandfather, hunting rights to a ridge he wished for, and permission to dam the White Knife ‘if it please the Lord.’ Robb had answered each of them as courteously as he could, but had bent them to his will. Or, he thought he had.

Just when he thought the worst was over, Lord Umber — called the Greatjon — (and he was great, as tall as Hodor and twice as wide) threatened to leave with all his men if he wasn’t placed ahead of both the Cerwyns and the Hornwoods. Robb had had no intention of allowing the other men to see him bullied about in that way.

Robb had told Greatjon he was welcome to do as he suggested, but when they’d finished with the Lannisters they’d march back north, root him out of his keep, and have him hanged as an Oathbreaker. Robb had been terrified in that moment that he truly was going to die. The Greatjon had a temper like an autumn storm. Greatjon had started cursing enough to make a septon look like a sailor, hurled an entire flagon of ale into the fire and bellowed that Robb was so green he probably pissed grass. Robb’s knees where quaking beneath the table. When Hallis Mollen went to restrain him, Greatjon knocked Hallis to the floor the way one might swat a fly, knocked over a whole table with a single kick, and unsheathed a huge greatsword. Of course, then all his sons and sworn swords were leaping up and grabbing for their steel as well.

Robb had nearly frozen with fear, but collected his senses just in time and called Grey Wind to him. The direwolf had snarled and had Greatjon on the floor in a minute. The man’s sword went spinning across the flagstones. Blood coated Greatjon’s fingers and more and more was coming. Grey Wind had bitten two of Greatjon’s fingers off. Robb had barely managed to find his voice as he stood and said with more conviction than he’d felt, “My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steal against your liege lord, but doubtless you only meant to cut my meat,” and for just a moment there was a horrible silence as the Greatjon sucked at the stumps of his fingers, what Grey Wind had left of them. Then, the Greatjon stared up at him from the floor in surprise and then had done something Robb had not expected — laughed! — Roared, actually. “Your meat is bloody _tough_!” Robb had sat down before he fell down. His legs did not stop shaking the entire rest of the meeting.

That incident had been a fortnight ago and he still got shaky when he thought about it even now.

Robb was embarrassed to feel tears running down his cheeks unchecked. He swiped them away with the backs of his hands angrily. If he was going act as a man grown, he needed to start by not crying like a baby.

Someone needed to help the Tullys against the Lannisters who were already fighting in the riverlands. But it needn’t be Robb. He could have sent one of the bannermen or Theon. In fact, that was what Maester Luwin had advised — anyone more experienced than Robb. Robb had told them his Father never would have sent men off knowing they might die while he hid behind the walls of Winterfell like a craven, and they all knew it was true; there was no arguing with that.

He looked back to the Heart Tree. “I need your guidance and your help so I know what to do from here. I’m probably repeating myself at this point. But I’m just scared and not brave. I don’t know if I can give what these men need. They need someone who is battle-hardened, strong, wise, with good sense, fair, just, understanding of our ways. They need Father. Not me. Not some green boy. I’m not good enough by half. And if we do poorly, if this was the wrong decision, they will die, and Father and Arya and Sansa might die. I don’t think I could bear that, for their blood would be on mine own hands.” Something like a knot welled in his throat.

“But if I don’t go, they might try to behead Father again or even Arya and Sansa too, and I could not bear that either. I cannot do nothing, but I do not know if I have done right either. I feel at any moment that I may make some horrible, dreadful mistake. I dream at night of all the things that could go wrong, of horrible things happening, and it is so awful I struggle to bear the weight. I cannot imagine how I would manage if they were for true. I would be lost. Please be with me. Please.” His last plea was so quiet it was a whisper.

Finally, he pushed himself off the ground, took in a deep breath and looked at the sky, trying for some modicum of control over himself. When he was only slightly calmer, he left the Godswood and made his way back toward the keep.

He broke his fast in the Great Hall, full to bursting as it always was at meals. It could not even begin to accommodate all of them, so Robb had taken turns having the men to meals. Those that could not fit and whose turn it was not, dined on their bedrolls in the keep’s grounds. He was too keyed up to eat much. He accepted some warm bread, a piece of bacon, and two boiled eggs, but managed only to eat a bite of the bread and one of the eggs. Everything seemed to stick in his throat.

As the first rays of light began to peek through the long, narrow windows that lined the Great Hall, Robb stood from his place on the dais. “It is time we were away. A long day of riding awaits.” Robb says. “We will meet beyond the outer walls in five and ten minutes.” And when he had finished speaking, the hubbub of voices and scraping of benches and moving of men grew loud as they left the Great Hall to saddle their horses and make their final preparations.

Not wanting to waste food, Robb gave the last of his breakfast to Grey Wind, who gobbled it down enthusiastically. Grey Wind had an insatiable appetite and grew to match it. He was already significantly larger than a regular wolf by far. 

Outside the walls of the keep, Bran, Old Nan, Rickon, Maester Casales and the rest of the household that would not be going with them were gathered to say goodbye. Robb noticed that Grey Wind and Summer looked deeply somber and Summer was licking Grey Wind’s face and Grey Wind was doing the same in return — as if they understood it might be a long time before they saw each other again.

Rickon sobbed and held to Robb’s legs, crying while snot ran down his face and mixed with his tears, and Robb could barely even make out what he was saying beyond “No go!” It rent his heart in two and tested his conviction yet again when he had to forcibly remove Rickon’s hands from his legs.

He knelt down so he was at a level with the boy. “I’m sorry, Rickon, but I have to go.” But when Robb moved to hug him, Rickon hit him hard across the face as hard as he could, which admittedly wasn’t very hard because he was three — though the smack hurt in much deeper ways than physical pain — kicked Robb in the knee, and tore away from the crowd sobbing that he wanted Shaggydog. Immediately, Maester Casales excused himself to hurry after Rickon. That made Robb feel at least a tiny bit better.

Bran was in his special saddle, mounted on Dancer’s back and Robb knew that Bran was struggling not to cry just like Robb was. When they hugged, Bran held onto Robb so hard that he pulled himself out of the saddle. Robb stumbled for a second but managed to hold him. He was strong. Bran’s dead legs dangled, but Robb still had no problem holding his little brother. He held him very, very tight. Bran buried his face in Robb’s neck and clenched his arms around Robb’s shoulders. Robb could feel Bran’s hot tears on his skin and had to swallow over and over and look at the sky to keep the tears in his own eyes from falling. Bran held Robb back just as fiercely. “Please come back Robb. Please.”

“I will. And I’m going to bring back Mother and Father and Arya and Sansa. And then we will all be together again. Just like we always have been.” Robb managed through the thickness of his throat.

“Promise.” Bran asked in a way that was both a demand and a question all rolled into one.

“I promise,” He sucked in a breath. “But you must be brave for me. You are The Stark in Winterfell. You are the Lord of Winterfell until I return. You must listen to the council Maester Casales brings you and trust him and Hallis and the others. You must love Rickon and remind him every day that we all love him too.” Robb felt a guilt at the weight he was putting on Bran’s shoulders — much too much for a seven year old, but there was nothing else to be done. “You must be strong and brave.”

Bran nodded his head fervently against Robb’s shoulder. “I will, Robb, I promise.” He sniffed back his tears and released one hand from his death grip to swipe at his eyes.

“Good. I love you so much, little brother. And I’m so proud of you. I always will be.” He lifted Bran back onto Dancer’s back and Bran leaned forward, still hugging Robb as long as he could before Robb stepped back and took the reins of his horse from Hallis. It was time to go.

He swung up onto the grey stallion’s back with ease and looked out at the thousands and thousands of men awaiting him in long columns, backing up to make a path so he might ride to the front to take command. There was something about it that made his stomach flip with both nervousness and excitement. He trotted his horse to the head of the column with Hallis and Theon nearby.

Theon reached out to touch Robb’s shoulder for a moment. “You did well. I know that wasn’t easy,” he said, his tone warmer and more serious than his usual joking around.

“No. It wasn’t.” He said with a sigh. “Thanks, Theon. I.. I’m not sure that I could do this without you.”

“Well, lucky for you, you’ve got me.” Theon said, his usual joking self returning and making Robb smile despite his sadness.

He took a breath, took one last look back at his family and at Winterfell and then gave the signal to move out. Within a few minutes, Winterfell was barely a grey dot on the horizon and the bannermen streamed out behind him in a great mass. The smallfolk of both the keep and Winter Town shouted and cheered as Robb and his bannermen road through.

Finally, he couldn’t see Winterfell at all. He gave the courser his head then, and after that, he looked only forward.

&&

It was a week of riding before they reached the Neck, where the landscape began to change. The ground began to get softer under the feet of both horses and men, and rather than open spaces there were more trees and shrubs. Then, the trees started to change type and close in around them making the path murky and dark with only occasional dappled light filtering down through the dense canopy above and only on the brightest days. Now, there were Willow, Tupelo, Mangrove, and Cypress clothed with lichen and great swaths of hanging moss.

The Kingsroad slowly became narrower, and their column had to narrow to fit it as well. Water began to collect in marshy areas around the road. First only in tiny spots but then into a true water-logged swamp with pools of standing water and trees growing up out of that water rather than from land. Lily pads, fallen logs, and algae covered the water as well as the trees rising, twisting, leaning toward the center. Finally, there was no road at all but only a very narrow causeway on a raised embankment with full swamp closing around them on either side.

The weather had changed as well. There was no chill in the air like the North. It was warm, even hot. He’d forgone his fur trimmed cloak by now. The heat wasn’t like the warm days of summer in Winterfell though. It was wet, heavy, and humid; Robb felt as if he was breathing in water as well as air. The heat seemed to form a blanket, low-lying, in the swamps around them. It was oppressive.

However, the swamps had their own mysterious kind of beauty. Huge flowers of every color imaginable bloomed everywhere, and colorful creatures of every type filled the swamps: little bright blue and red lizards and frogs, birds great and small, snakes with colorful bands, turtles sunning themselves on rocks — though they’d snap at anyone close — , moths and insects with shimmering wings, fish swimming fast appearing and disappearing in the murkiness, gigantic lizard-lions that even Grey Wind stayed well clear of, and deer and rabbits darting quickly away into the trees upon approach — which Grey Wind did not stay clear of. Squirrels chattered in the trees above, and sometimes there was the flash of red and white of a fox’s tail, and the sound of beavers gnawing wood for their dams and slapping the water with their tails. Raccoons washed their food and watched them with intent, beady eyes behind their masks of black, and feral hogs snorted and squealed in muddy areas. There were armadillos with their odd little bodies. As darkness descended, bats came out to hunt along with fireflies dotting the night with their twinkling glow.

Robb was so busy looking at everything that occasionally he lost track of anything but the swamp around him. Sound seemed almost muted here, and didn’t echo quite the same as in open areas which made the footfalls of horses and men quieter and less noticeable. Robb knew that the crannogmen lived in these swamps. Sometimes he saw what he thought were their shadows moving in the trees, but when he took a second look they were gone, if they had ever been there at all. Only rarely did he see one of the little reed houses they lived in, built on floating islands in the mire. Most of them were well hidden within the trees and out of sight, seemingly as reclusive as the men who built them.

On the third day in the swamps — where the going was much slower and they covered a third or less the distance they had thus far — Robb was surprised by the appearance of a man mounted on a small, hardy-looking, sure-footed pony coming North toward them.

The pony was dark bay with panagré markings about its eyes and muzzle that also traveled over its flanks and underbelly. Despite being perhaps only 12 hands tall, it was stocky and hardy-looking indeed with a deep chest and broad back. Its short legs were heavy with muscle and good bone. It had a large head with small ears and an odd fleshiness about the eye which Robb would later learn helped to keep water out of its eyes. It had a thick mane and tail and a coat that seemed as if it would run water off the pony rather than soaking through to the skin. Robb had never seen a pony or horse like it before.

The man was clad in a shirt of bronze scales and wielded a three-pronged frog spear and a round leather shield. A knife also hung at his waist and a large net of some sort was fastened to his pony’s saddle. He was a compact man, short and slim but strong like his pony. He rode with his back straight. His dark hair was cut relatively short — perhaps due to the climate and was a bit wild. His chin was covered with a short brown beard and mustache. His hazel eyes seemed wise once he got close enough for Robb to see them. He had scratches on his weather-beaten face.

Robb called for a halt and was about to ask the the crannogman his business, but the man spoke first. “Robb Stark.” He didn’t ask it as a question though.

“Aye,” Robb said, guardedly. Grey Wind’s hackles raised but he did not react otherwise.

“You favor your Mother, but I can see some of Ned in you.” He said thoughtfully, then smiled. “Howland Reed. I am in your service, my lord.”

A great smile spread over Robb’s face as he leapt down from his horse’s back and went to embrace Howland like a brother though they had never met. Robb had heard so much about Howland from his father that it was almost like seeing his father in some odd way. Howland embraced Robb in return, clapping him on the back, and both men grinned like fools.

“I had expected you at the Mouth of the Neck,” Robb said, though with no judgment.

“My apologies, My Lord. I was south with Helman Tallhart and Galbert Glover at Moat Cailin when I received your summons. And, as you’ve likely seen, it’s not quick journeying here.”

“Gods, just Robb please,” He muttered, feeling his face go all red and cursing his Tully complexion for it. He was not his father.

“Yes, you are your Father’s son,” Howland decided at that. “And thank the Gods for it. We need more men like Ned.”

Robb blushed again. (Accursed Tully complexion!) “You’ve been at Moat Cailin?” Robb asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Indeed.”

“How is the progress there? Have you time to ride back with us the rest of the way that I might feast you? — at least to the degree we can in current conditions.” He added the rest as an afterthought — this was not Winterfell, after all.

“It is excellent. I believe you’ll be pleased when you see; it would be my pleasure to ride with you. And this is the wolf I’ve heard so much about.”

“This is Grey Wind. You can say hello to him if you like.”

As if the direwolf understood Robb’s words, he stepped forward and let Howland scratch him behind the ears. He liked it, Robb could tell, as he laid his great head over in Howland’s hand in response to the scratching and even let his eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Seems that he likes you,” Robb said, pleased.

“Seems he’s as good a judge of character as his master, then,” Howland grinned. “If we would ride more today we had best do it now before it gets much later.” Robb knew what he meant; he had already learned that this was not a place to be out without camp in the dark what with the lizard lions, swine, and even black bears that roamed the area.

Robb and Howland re-mounted and, at Robb’s invitation, Howland drew his pony into step beside Robb’s courser with the Greatjon falling back to yield the place and the company began moving once more.

“I would have you tell me more about this place. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before.” Robb admitted. He had never been south and had not expected how different it would be.

&&

Moat Cailin rose out of the shimmering late afternoon humidity almost like a mirage. Robb remembered the things he had been taught about the Moat by Maester Luwin during their lessons.

The Neck, which contained Moat Cailin, was the division of North and South in Westeros. While the swamps of the Neck were already a protection in and of themselves due to the things that lived there and the quicksand, Moat Cailin made the Neck completely impassable from the South. One could not wade through the water across the causeway without being in direct line of fire from the archers above in Moat Cailin’s three remaining towers. Moreover, the moat proper had been dug waist deep and purposefully filled with an entire population of lizard-lions left to their own devices.

Nonetheless, it was not quite what Robb had been expecting when they got close enough to see it. “Once there were twenty towers here, a wooden keep, and a basalt wall as high as Winterfell’s.” Howland Reed told Robb as they approached.

Robb felt a certain sadness upon hearing that. Now, Moat Cailin looked little more than a ruin. Huge blocks of basalt scattered about were the only hint of the great wall that had once stood. The wooden keep had rotted away as if it had never been there, the swampy land having reclaimed itself. Only three stone towers remained. They were covered in moss and ghostskin. However, the causeway passed right between all three towers, and Robb saw his father’s point in arming it. No army could effectively cross here without being at the mercy of every archer above with no way to fight back. 

“It is a shame isn’t it?” Howland said with a sad smile. “That this is all that’s left.”

“It truly is. Perhaps it should be rebuilt properly,” Robb mused.

“It would be nice if it could be, but at the moment we have greater concerns.” And Robb knew he was right. Still, it was something he would keep in mind for the future.

“That one is the Children’s Tower,” Howland pointed up. It was tall and slender, though in disrepair like the other parts of the ruin. It was missing half the crenelations of its crown. “The large one over there is the Gatehouse Tower.” It was low but wide and was the only tower not leaning. Its stone was dark and even more covered with lichen than the others. There were some walls still around it. A tree was growing through its northern side, but it still looked strong. “And that one is the Drunkard’s Tower. You can probably guess how it got its name.”

Robb chuckled, “It’s as leant over as a drunk man.” He suggested. The tower stood where the south and walls should have met had they still been intact.

Howland Reed also laughed and nodded, “Yes, exactly.”

“So, basically, you think this can hold the North even if all our bannermen aren’t at home to protect their lands?”

“I’m sure of it. You’ve got it well manned, and even in ten thousand years Moat Cailin has never been taken from the South.”

“Those odds are pretty good,” Robb admitted with a grin. “You and the rest of your men will remain here in the Neck and help ensure no Southron forces slip by the Moat,” He said decisively.

“A wise choice,” Howland agreed. “You can rest here, regroup, assign commands, and then move to join the fighting in the riverlands.” Howland suggested. “If I may be so bold.”

“I’m happy to take your advice. I think that is indeed what I’ll do.”

“Furthermore,” Howland continued “if any foolish Southroners should try to come through the Neck, we will bleed them every step of the way,” Howland assuaged, grinning.

“Do you think they’d even try?” Robb asked, thoughtfully.

“Unfortunately, much as I’d like the pleasure, I highly doubt it. I suspect Lord Tywin is too smart to try something that hasn’t succeeded in ten thousand years.”

Robb nodded, “In that case, he’s going to take the keeps of the river lords one at a time, sticking close to the Trident. If allowed, he’ll keep going until Riverrun stands alone.”

“Well thought, Robb,” the Greatjon boomed from behind them. And then he was blushing all over again, Godsdammit.

“So, as Lord Howland suggests, we’ll wait until all the bannermen have joined us and then march South to engage Lord Tywin in the Riverlands before he can do that. We’ll be able to discuss it further after we’ve eaten, but it seems the most logical way to go about this.” Robb said, nodding his head as he further told himself it was the right decision.

As they came closer to the Moat, they heard a shout from above and Robb shaded his eyes to look upward where he saw Lord Galbert Glover atop Children’s Tower. Robb lifted a hand and waved at him in greeting. Lord Galbert disappeared from the top of the tower and was soon outside along with Lord Helman, greeting them and making them welcome. Robb slid down off his horse, giving the courser an affectionate pat before handing him off to one of Lord Helman’s men who offered to feed and massage him down. Normally, Robb would have seen to his own horse, but more urgent matters meant he was willing to accept the help.

Howland Reed grinned as Robb let his horse be led away. “Well, what are we waiting for then? Let’s go inside. I’m rather looking forward to seeing you try frog legs, Robb.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter and thanks for reading :)


	6. Moon Three (Full) -- I Pray That Something Picks Me Up and Sets Me Down in Your Warm Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having avoided King's Landing since fighting with Ned, Jaime prepares to march north to engage Robb Stark. But not without seeing Cersei first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> \- Hey everyone! It’s your lucky day; being off on Christmas break, I’ve had more time to write so here’s another new chapter for you guys. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> \- Thank you to Hejsokoly for help with architectural descriptions and SkySamuelle for major plotting help! I’ve been getting so many kind reviews and kudos, and I really appreciate them! Thank you for reviews to last chapter go to Joan_of_Arc and SkySamuelle. You guys have no idea how excited I get when I log in to see new reviews! 
> 
> \- I’ve updated the playlist (mostly mixing in the ‘old new songs’). There only two additions since it’s been a short time between chapters.
> 
> \- I’ll go back and update the upcoming works document after Christmas is over but feel free to keep suggestions coming about what you want to see in King of Winter 
> 
> \- The song that inspired the title for this chapter is Set Fire To the Third Bar by Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright. Also good are The Call, I Can Wait Forever, Kiss Me Like Nobody’s Watching, and On Top of the World. The other songs that fit would be anything tagged Jaime/Cersei from the playlist. 
> 
> \- If you're curious, the Aljafería palace in Spain is the inspiration for the description of the Undercroft in this chapter. Searching the article "Rib vault" will take you to the page where the actual photo I based the description on. 
> 
> \- I don’t recommend reading (or writing in my case!) this chapter around your family and friends.

Moon Three (Full)

I Pray That Something Picks Me Up and Sets Me Down in Your Warm Arms

* * *

White Sword Tower was virtually impossible to access without being noticed. That was something Jaime Lannister had learned well about his home of seventeen years. The difficulty was both because seven — technically six currently — sworn shields lived there and because the architecture did not lend itself to sneaking.

The tower was built into the castle wall at an angle where two corners met. Sneaking in from inside the keep was less of an architectural challenge, though the challenge of the men remained. Since the Tower was in the far corner, there was a long gap with little shadow cover to cross. That long gap was the bane of his existence on any moonlit night on which he snuck out to see Cersei. Walking along the wall was almost as difficult due to the amount of men who patrolled it and the risk they would look down. While it wasn’t as if he couldn’t come up with some excuse, that would be inconvenient. It was easier if there were never questions raised in the first place about why he snuck in and out repeatedly.

From outside the Red Keep, the architecture presented the bigger problem: the only option was to scale the wall. And tonight, if he wanted to see Cersei uninterrupted, that was his only option. It had been too long since he had held her, kissed her soft mouth, felt her skin warm against his with their souls as mingled as their bodies. He missed her as if he was missing a part of himself, so much it almost physically hurt.

Jaime had not been back to King’s Landing since the disastrous mêlée he had gotten himself into with Stark. Stupid, rash, the sort of ill-thought-out fiasco that had his name written all over it. Godsdammit. There had been losses on both sides even if the worst had gone to the Northron men. In addition to the losses, he’d had to flee the city before Eddard Stark found a way to have his blood. That had meant he had not seen Cersei in four months. Rather, he’d been playing ‘come into my castle’ with Godsdamned Beric Dondarrion whom Stark had sent after him. The man was like a bloodhound. There had to have been a better way to avenge Tyrion, but whatever it was, Jaime had been too impatient to wait for it — another of his numerous faults.

But now that it looked for sure and certain that there would be true war with Robb Stark marching south, Jaime knew his Father expected him to command a field force. While the prospect filled him with a source of excited contentment that few things brought him in life (swords, Cersei) it meant even more separation from his twin. And he needed to see her before he went any further from King’s Landing than he had gone while hiding out and avoiding the city.

Scaling the wall meant avoiding the gold cloaks while scrambling up a not-particularly-climbing-friendly wall — on a full moon. (Another imprudent, ill-conceived idea). He fought to accomplish the task for the better part of an hour even with a rope but finally managed it. Going down the other side proved (unexpectedly) not all that much easier. He wound up losing his footing and sliding several feet, which resulted in a wonder of when he’d gotten too old for this sort of thing, wounded pride, and a bruised ass.

When Jaime had fled the city, he had not taken his Kingsguard whites or his golden armor to avoid conspicuity. He had left them safely in the undercroft of White Sword Tower where all of their arms and armor was stored when not currently in use. Putting on his Kingsguard armor was likely the best option to avoid detection within the Red Keep — especially if he meant to get close to Cersei. In the darkness, a member of the Kingsguard would barely be looked at. With his his half helm to cover his hair and part of his face, it would be easy.

Fortunately, the undercroft was easy enough to access once he was inside the Red Keep’s walls. At ground level, the room was a large vault beneath the tower proper that not only served as storage space but as support for the building above. Its ceiling was a crossed-arch dome that rose to a story above ground before reaching its summit point. Lathed of white stone and white marble, the room looked as elegant as any he had ever seen — undercroft or not. A narrow gallery walkway twisted its way around the upper portion dividing inner and outer walls of the tower. Cinquefoil arches and arabesque railing panels surrounded the interior of the walkway and one could look down into the chamber below while the outer wall had high mullioned windows that let in a measure of light. Out of view, a winding staircase went up all four floors in the tower above.

Tucked beneath the walkway, shallow recesses were carved out. Contained therein were pegs, trunks, wardrobes, and weapon racks where each Kingsguard member was assigned space to keep his own armor, weapons, and so on whenever not in use. Supplies: oil clothes, whetstones, and polish were here too. Jaime could not even count how much time he had spent down here: caring for his armor and weapons or other needed supplies, talking with his brothers in the Kingsguard as they did the same, and often enough using the huge vault space in the center as a sparring area on particularly inclement days.

He could still remember the first time Ser Arthur Dayne had led him into this room. It had felt magical and forbidden — like he wasn’t suited to walk in the boots of those who also used it. ‘Well, what are you waiting for then? Try it on.’ The foggy memory of his mentor said, holding out the last thing for him to don — the white cloak of the Kingsguard on top of the new armor he had already worn. That felt like a lifetime ago. He pressed a palm to the cool stone and wondered when he would be back again. He would miss it. At the beginning, joining the Kingsguard had been, while exciting, a means to an end. It had been a way to see Cersei every day (not that that had worked out so well at the beginning thanks to Tywin Lannister’s tirade and resignation when he found out about Jaime’s appointment). But over time, this had become his home, these had become his brothers, and a loyalty he could not entirely explain tethered him here. _A kingsguard serves for life_.

He began to don his armor in quick (but precise and silent) movements. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could see Cersei. The sooner she would take it off. The sooner he could hold her properly. White armor with enamel scales and silver fastenings slid over a leather jerkin like a second skin he was so used to them, and his white cloak ghosted about his shoulders as he shrugged into it’s familiarity — both good and bad. He twisted his hair up and slid his helm over it. As quickly and quietly as he had come, he was gone.

&&

Jaime’s feet knew the way to Cersei’s chambers with an ease of memory from having walked them many thousands of times. He had to force himself to walk slowly in case any of the many eyes in the Red Keep noticed him. He passed a Lannister house guard, a couple of sentries, and two or three smallfolk doing nighttime chores — none of them ever gave him a second look — and a cat that did, but then decided it couldn’t be bothered and went back to cleaning itself. Like recognized like after all.

He waited in an alcove, that had seen his use a thousand times for the same purpose, to ensure whichever Kingsguard was stationed near the royal apartments was not at this end of the hall before he crossed to Cersei’s chambers. They had a coded knock that had been more in use when Robert was still alive, but Jaime didn’t need it tonight. It wasn’t yet the middle of the night — not quite — but it was late enough that no one would bother Cersei.

Once inside, Jaime barred the door behind him and looked around. It was dark in the entry room and the solar, but he could see a flicker of dancing light beyond that. He skirted the furniture in the solar as he passed through the darkness. He stopped at the doorway to the bedchamber. A fire crackled in the hearth, and Cersei relaxed languidly in a bathing tub with the light casting her skin in a warm glow and steam from the hot water still rising.

She leaned back on the edge of the tub and her hair spilled to the floor behind her with the water lapping at her chest. She looked calm. She was watching the fire and had a goblet of wine in one hand. She was perfect. She was his world and held his heart in her hands and his desire for her in that moment was so much beyond pure physicality that he would not have been able to put it into words. It just _was_.

In a silence perfected of so many years as a kingsguard, Jaime slid his helm off and sat it on a table near the door before he crossed behind her and knelt down. Slowly, he leaned around her shoulder and pressed his mouth to hers. Perhaps it was a testament to their connection that, for a fraction of a second, Cersei’s lips responded to his as if he was simply part of her before she startled. Her green eyes flashed open and she shot up sending a wave of water and soap over the edge of the tub while the goblet tumbled from her grasp.

Her lips tore from his, and she was ready to hit him when she realized. “Jaime!” And then her mouth was on his again and her arms were around his shoulders, not even aware of the discomfort of soft flesh on armor. One of her hands clenched in his hair so hard it hurt — he didn’t care — and the other grasped desperately at his shoulders, soaking his cloak. His answer was a soft sound against her lips with no words but a thousand meanings: Cersei, my sister, my twin, my lover, _everything_.

The kiss was perfect and messy at the same time with breaths that couldn’t align but mouths that fit to each other like a glove, teeth that knocked against each other but tongues that delved warm traces on each other.

“You’re soaking wet now,” Cersei finally pointed out in wry amusement when she could finally find words again.

“So I’ve noticed. I wonder whose fault that is.”

Cersei chuckled with a happiness that warmed both of them. She was only ever that free with him.

Jaime had a fleeting thought that he needed to sit his cloak and clothes in front of the fire to dry or he would regret it in the morning, but that never happened. Truthfully, neither of them had much of a memory of how his armor and clothes got off, only that they did and that when they were, Jaime joined her in the water and was able to hold her the way he’d missed doing for far too long.

He moved so that his back was against the tub and she could lean against him. Jaime noticed, happy as she might be to see him, her back was full of tension and soreness. She always carried strain in her shoulders and back when she was too stressed. “What have you been so worried about, sweet sister?” He asked her, beginning to massage her back and shoulders with tender yet firm hands.

Cersei let out something between a wince and a moan as he began to carefully work the knots from her back. He did this for her whenever she was too upset. She never showed her weaknesses to anyone else and merely carried their weight until she could shrug them off or Jaime took them from her even though they never seemed to weigh him down. “Everything.” She said quietly, letting her weight rest back in his hands and tipping her chin down so he could reach the back of her neck when he brushed her hair out of the way.

“Tell me.” He encouraged softly as he continued massaging her back, working his hands all along her spine and leaned to press a soft kiss at the nape of her neck that made her shiver.

_It’s all becoming more than I can manage_. Was what she wanted to say. But she refused to be that weak and settled for, “Joff, Eddard Stark — all the Starks actually, war, Myrcella and Tommen, Father burning through the riverlands without there being time for another harvest, people rising up against us, too many kings I can’t control — even the one I should be able to, looking like an ineffectual fool in front of thousands of people, what Eddard Stark knows — I forgot to add that to his list because it has a whole separate category all its own…” She probably would have gone on but she had to stop to breathe.

She felt Jaime’s lips press against her shoulder and his arms wrap her close against his strong chest. “I will never let anyone hurt you. Never. If they try, I’ll kill them.” And Cersei believed. Or perhaps it was Jaime’s lips on her skin. Either way, she felt better.

He resumed rubbing her shoulders. She could tell he was waiting for her to continue talking, but for a while she just leaned into his hands and let her eyes close. Finally she said, “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” And her voice broke around the words.

“What do you mean? You haven’t done anything wrong.” Jaime reassured.

“Clearly I have.” She was quiet for a moment and then said, “Myrcella and Tommen are sweet, and gentle, and kind. But Joffrey has become.” She took a deep breath. It hurt her to even speak like this about one of her children, but she couldn’t fail to notice the truth of it after the fight they had. He had been chilly toward her ever since she struck him. Perhaps she deserved it. Parents were not supposed to hurt their children.

“He’s become spoiled, demanding, foolish, even dangerous, and… and cruel.” The last word nearly broke her. She could remember when Joffrey was small. He would pat her cheeks softly and giggle when she smiled for him, like a game. When had it changed?

She had noticed as he grew up that Joffrey had become spoiled, had become used to getting his way. But it hadn’t troubled her. Perhaps it should have troubled her more, looking back on it. He had been nasty toward Tommen so often that she had recently noticed her younger son was becoming fearful of him and would not be around Joff alone. Myrcella was nearly as bad. More often, she found one of them hiding or crying about something Joffrey had said or done.

Jaime sighed. He knew he was not a good father. It wasn’t as if he’d had much of an opportunity to be otherwise. When they were small he could hold them, but by the time they were old enough to risk accidentally saying something… and he had resigned himself to it. He cared for them, but he wasn’t attached to them in the way he felt like he ought to be. The few times he had tried to reach out, everyone had just looked at him oddly. The only uncle he had ever been close to was Gerion, whom he still missed. But he fell short of being able to replicate that. He knew it was because he did not know how to walk the line between a father that could never be and an uncle that was too much. So he avoided. Jaime was like that and always had been; it was everything or nothing.

What Cersei said about Joffrey was true though. Even Jaime hadn’t failed to notice. Perhaps with Robert gone and not able to be jealous… He took a deep breath. “Joff needs both a firm hand and a stable male role model in his life. He never got it with Robert, and if one of us failed… it was me.”

Cersei looked at him over her shoulder. “No. You didn’t. You didn’t have a chance. You would be a good father. The best.” She whispered the last and something low and warm overtook her. “Jaime, would you ever…”

“Yes.” And his mouth was on hers as she turned in his lap now with her body pressed close against his warm, hard chest as their lips claimed each other to communicate because Jaime and Cersei didn’t need words.

The kisses were long, needy, hungry, filled with every emotion they wanted to convey and share. Cersei shifted so she was leaning against him, her knees to either side of his waist and pressed herself close against him before leaning down to kiss him again and again. She felt Jaime’s hands on her in all the places that made her skin tingle and the heat begin to pool in her lower belly. Jaime’s hands were slowly, gently sliding up her sides with his thumbs along her front and fingers along her back, splayed around her ribs. He traced soft circles on her skin with his thumbs which made her shiver in delight as he slowly worked his hands up her sides. He was so slow, painstakingly so, but it also felt amazing. Her skin warmed and tingled everywhere he touched her.

His fingers slid along wet, warm skin until his thumbs moved over her breasts and nipples and began to circle them. Cersei tipped her head back and gasped softly as Jaime began to kiss down her exposed throat, neck, and chest. He pulled Cersei a bit higher against him with his arms around her lower back so that he could lean up and wrap his mouth around one of her breasts, which made her throw her head back as he kissed and sucked the tip. Her whole body shuddered in delight at his mouth on her flesh.

She was too high up to be able to reach to kiss him, but her hands twisted in his hair and on the nape of his neck the way she knew he liked. It caused a sound to shudder on her skin from inside him and her body twinned the shudder from a deep place. She felt his hands work down her sides again as his mouth moved to her other breast and his fingers made a path through the water that gleamed on her skin like diamonds in the firelight as his hands caressed long paths up her thighs, over her hips, her ass, her lower back all the way up to her shoulders.

Gods he was such a good lover.

His lips pressed kisses all down her heaving chest until he reached her navel which was as low as he could reach just now, so his lips began the trek back up. He stretched until he could just reach her collar bone and sucked at it causing Cersei to moan softly. He sucked harder and her moan grew while he grinned against her skin from the sound. Cersei had never been loud, but the fervency of her moans made something twist so wonderfully in his gut. His fingers explored along her spine and in the place on her lower back that was so sensitive to them both causing her to squirm slightly and arch her back into his hands.

He sat up a little more and worked her up higher in his arms, feeling her fingers clench harder in his hair, twisting it in knots around her fingers. It felt good, like anchoring her to him. Jaime kept lifting her further until his arms wrapped around the back of her thighs. He kissed and brushed his tongue along her skin all along her navel and then past the golden curls between her legs. He felt her breathing quicken in anticipation as he kissed all around her center before his tongue finally parted her folds and slowly, deliberately slid along her center, dipping inside her for a moment. Inside, she was wet and warm, and how she shivered and squirmed combined with their kisses was just arousing him more. He brushed his tongue upward until it could circle against her most secret, sensitive place and Cersei’s squirming turned to writhing.

He could feel her gasping above him and looked upward, his chin brushing against the golden curls between her legs — even that made her squirm now — and watched her face for a moment. He could imagine her emerald eyes would be dark with desire but right now they were clenched shut and her mouth was parted in a small O. Her chest was heaving tantalizingly and her back was arched toward him. Jaime tipped his face down once more and returned to pleasuring her with his lips and tongue. “Jaime!” That single word, the way she said his name, was enough to make his blood race and his cock twitch urgently. It begged attention, but his hands and mouth were busy pleasuring Cersei, so he ignored it for now.

His tongue sought her wetness, took it in, relished in her taste and scent, what was uniquely hers. This was one thing no one else had ever done for her, one thing that was theirs alone. He loved what it made her do, what he could make her do. He could feel her shaking now, struggling to hold herself up with nothing to balance on but her grip in his hair, but Gods he wanted her to come. He wanted her to come around his lips and tongue.

“Please, Cersei.” He managed to free his lips from her folds enough to say. It sent her over the edge as her want moistened his lips and tongue and her whole body tensed above him until she came sliding down into his lap, shaking violently. Her skin was so flushed and sweaty and beautiful. The ends of her hair were wet and stringy and her chest heaved against his, dragging hardened nipples against his skin and making him gasp for a second.

When Cersei kissed him, all the while still shaking, she could taste herself on his lips and tongue and in his mouth; she liked it just as she liked the taste of him. Their tongues tangled fervently and her world was no bigger than the two of them. She felt his one of his hands working its way into her half wet hair and up her back and the other pressed against her neck to increase the pressure of the kiss as their tongues danced and she saw sparks behind her closed eyes. Their hands worked restlessly over each other’s bodies exploring every place they already knew but needed to find again. The places they only shared with each other. His fingers and lips on her hands made Cersei feel as if she was flying she was so light.

They kissed and kissed and she felt how hard he was between them. Gods. That turned her on too. Everything about Jaime did. Cersei shifted to brush her breasts up his chest and press tightly against him. Her mouth ghosted over the wet skin of his arm, his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. She couldn’t help but grin when he tipped his head back, baring his throat so that her mouth could close over the rise in his throat and suck at him and then delve her tongue to the hollow below and brush her teeth so lightly over his skin making him groan. And when he did, she sunk down onto him, taking him inside her at last. _Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Jaime!_ It was all she could think as she slowly lifted herself up and sunk down on him again beginning a slow pace.

Every time he filled her, her muscles clenched around him partially inadvertently and partially of her will because she knew how much he liked it. His hands found her hips and guided her into a smooth rhythm that they found together. Her body enveloped him, took him for her own, deep inside her. And she could take him so deep this way, straddled over his waist. The look on his face was bliss as he moved between tipping his head back with soft pants and leaning forward to meet her lips with his. Sometimes, a soft moan would slide between her lips and dance across her tongue. She loved making him moan. She loved making him come undone in her arms. He was so strong, and she was the only one who could undo him. Only Cersei. He was only hers and she was only his.

“Never anyone else. Never again.” She vowed.

“Never.” He affirmed.

“Mine.” She managed, breathing hard. “My brother, my lover, my Jaime.”

“Yours. Always.” He promised in return and then silenced her with lips and tongue and a shared gasp of breath that turned into a shared moan. She was so aroused from her earlier climax that it was not difficult for the muscles in her lower stomach to begin to tense and tighten with want and need and sensation as their pace increased. She could feel his stomach against her own when she leaned forward and changed the angle of their bodies. His muscles were tight in all the right ways as his body started to near his own release.

She clenched her hands on his shoulders tighter. She wanted him to fill her with himself. She heard herself begging him the way he had begged her earlier. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_. And then his hands clenched tight around her, pulling her to his chest and burying his face in her sweat-dampened hair. He moaned and it was a beautiful sound. His muscles clenched and she felt them and then he filled her with himself and she fell against his chest, shuddering and clinging to him, finishing a second time with him — for him. Her nose and lips brushed his sweaty skin and they just held each other trying to remember how to breathe again.

“… This water is cold.” Cersei said finally, anticlimactically.

Jaime laughed.

“What!? It is!” she protested, struggling not to laugh herself.

“Mm. I can think of ways to warm you up again after we get out.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Mm hm.” He said, getting to his knees and pulling her up with him. He reached for a linen to wrap around her shoulders and then lifted her into his arms causing her to protest in surprise, but Jaime only ginned and kept holding her cradled against his chest. Finally, he sat her on the bed and then began to pat her dry sometimes leaning to kiss her swollen lips as he did.

Eventually, he returned to get a linen for himself and then crawled over her into the bed and wrapped her against his chest, safe in his arms once more. Before pulling the covers over them. Cersei lifted her fingers up to brush Jaime’s cheek and cradle his jaw. “I love you. You make me so happy.”

“I’m not whole without you,” he responded. A surge of love and protectiveness filled him as he pulled her closer. They were quiet for a long time after with Jaime just holding her.

She had her face beneath his chin where she liked to rest it when she finally said softly, “Jaime?”

“Hm?” He murmured, sliding a hand up her back. She was so warm and perfect in his arms.

“Do you…” She paused for a moment, questioning even mentioning it but finally said, “Do you believe in… magic?”

He would have thought the question passing odd — especially from Cersei — except for all the rumors about Eddard Stark. Even hidden in the Kingswood and not revealing his identity, the few smallfolk he had come upon were talking about it. He’d heard a good many different variations of events, each more wild then the last. He didn’t answer her question at first, distracted by remembering his curiosity. “What exactly happened?”

Cersei pressed closer against him. “Sansa Stark’s direwolf that… is … was… dead came out of literally nowhere, leapt on top of Eddard, knocked him out of the way and took the killing blow instead. She… that… creature looked like she was in agony and then just dissolved into thin air. And it was never… it wasn’t like a real wolf but like a… shade.. Of one. It was as if it was made of light. When it happened, Sansa fainted. I thought she fainted because of what she was seeing but it was after she fainted that that… thing… came, and then the next I saw her she was ashen and cold as if dead. It’s been almost a fortnight and she hasn’t changed. Maester Pycelle has been keeping her alive with water and honey the way…”

Jaime knew what she meant. He always knew anything Cersei meant. He finished her thoughts and sentences as seamlessly as if they were his own often as not. He had tried not to think about it too heavily. What would be the point? It was done wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if he could take it back now. “Yes.” He said. “You’re sure it was Sansa’s wolf?”

“Yes.” She clenched her eyes shut. “I saw it every night in my dreams for weeks.” Truthfully, she had been disturbed by the dreams and had been relieved when they finally stopped. This was not a welcome reminder.

Jaime sighed, “I don’t know. I’m not sure there is an answer to things like this.”

She shifted in his arms so she could see him better, “But do you think it _means_ something? Like something will happen…”

Jaime’s green eyes were confused as he held her close, “What? Like a prophecy or something?”

_Gold will be their crowns, gold their shrouds._

“Maybe.”

Something in her voice was quiet and scared. Jaime shifted, concerned. He could sense an uneasiness in her, a kind of fear that was unusual. He remembered it the first time Robert had hit her. A few other times… not often. Gently, he brought his hand up to hold her face and met her eyes. His were sure and certain; hers were worried. “I think… prophecies and magic and all the rest are what you make of them — sketchy guesswork at best. Outcomes are constantly evolving based on our choices every day, so I don’t see how someone could see a future and know it’s going to come to pass. Prophecies are about as real as grumpkins and snarks.”

“You’re… Do you promise?” Cersei stared up at him with a beseeching look in her eyes that made no sense to Jaime. None of it made any sense to Jaime. Cersei was usually so rational. Then again, Cersei liked when things made sense. She liked when she could see all the pieces and decide how to move them and react to them. Whatever had happened with Eddard Stark was not only inexplicable but also out of her control.

“I promise. I think not being able to explain it bothers you far less than not being able to control it, sweet sister.”

Cersei’s lips tugged slightly at the corners. “Maybe.” She admitted.

“Mm hm. Thought so. The bigger question is what you intend to do with Eddard and his children. That is something you _can_ control.”

Cersei reached up and wrapped her arms around Jaime’s neck and pressed her lips against his softly, momentarily distracted.

“Mm. I _hope_ that is not what you intend to do with Stark.”

Cersei looked at him for a split second of horror before she righted her face and returned, “Would you be jealous?”

Jaime slowly turned her over until Cersei was on her back and he was on top of her and pressed her hands into the bed beside her face as he looked down at her.

“So jealous.” He breathed before pressing his mouth to hers.

&&

The mornings when she woke in Jaime’s arms were both rare and incredibly extraordinary.

He woke her with a soft touch to her shoulder and her mouth sought his before she even opened her eyes. She felt him respond and her lips curved happily beneath his. “What time is it?” She murmured.

“Mm.. an hour before sunrise or so. I have to go.”

“No.” Cersei pouted, then tugged his face down and kissed his lips insistently.

Jaime gave in to her kisses his mouth melding against hers for several long moments as his fingers slipped through hers. “You are insatiable.”

“Mm.. You’re the one always saying the Targaryens wed brother to sister and you want to stand up beside me and tell everyone I’m yours.”

“Yes. I want to do that too. But not today. I have fighting to— Ow!” Jaime protested, laughing as Cersei smacked at him playfully.

“What if I said I would marry you but only today?”

Jaime stared at her, his green eyes going wide, his mind trying to grasp what she was saying. “Wait.. What.. Are you serious?”

“No, you beautiful, golden fool!” Cersei said, pressing against his chest and giggling.

“You’re horrible!” Jaime protested, though he was chuckling slightly as well. Much as he was deadly serious that he would marry Cersei in a heart beat, it was unequivocally not the right time. Even he could see that.

“Yes. Without regret.” She agreed, leaning up and kissing him again, trapping him by rolling on top of him and making him gasp in surprise when she brushed across his cock as she did it, then watched him expectantly.

“Once more. And then I really do have to go.”

Cersei grinned drawing Jaime’s lips to hers. “Godsdamn Robb Stark for taking you away from me.”

Jaime’s kisses trailed along Cersei’s jaw until his mouth reached her ear. “_No one_ will ever take me away from you.”

She turned her face to the side and felt his lips on hers before she had even quite done it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran's comment regarding Jaime's climbing abilities - "Amateur." 
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> _________
> 
> Next up: Will Catelyn, Tyrion, and the Blackfish ever manage to get out of the Vale?


	7. Moon Three (Waning) -- From Those We Love Comes Our Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn, Rodrik, Blackfish, Bronn, and Tyrion try to get out of the Vale so they can journey to Moat Cailin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to put up a chapter to surprise you all on New Years Eve! Here's a toast 2020 and lots of amazing fandom things. Your comments and love of this story have filled the end of 2019 with so many good things for me. I hope your new year is merry and bright. 
> 
> Content: A few of the scenes here are modeled after scenes in the AGOT. Wherever possible I have tried to avoid using exact quotes and change the scenes up. Some situations are the same and some are different. So, I will offer a disclaimer that none of that belongs to me. This amazing world belongs to G.R.R.M! (For the love of all the gods, finish the book, George!). 
> 
> Beta, Reviews, & Bookmarks: So many Reviewers to thank! You guys are awesome! Thank you SkySamuelle, Joan_of_Arc, Bronzeblues, Highflyer, The Jingo, and Lindsayr28. Of course I continue to answer all reviews and they give me such muse!
> 
> Playlist: Playlist is updated with a few more songs in bold at the bottom! Some songs that fit this chapter are I See Fire, Home, Renegades, Die Young, A Song for Mama
> 
> Spoilers: Maybe a good moment as we get further to remind you all that I'm still reading ADWD and up to Season 2 of the show (Reading, watching as fast as I can) and I remain unspoiled so please don't spoil me! 
> 
> Dany: Thought I should mention -- she IS coming. Eventually. You haven't seen her yet because her story remains the same until her arrival in Slaver's Bay. So I need to give her time for her plot to catch up with the rest of the books. So for now you can imagine she's.. what.. we're in ACOK somewhere I think so... in the Red Waste or Quarth by now. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Moon Three (Waning)

From Those We Love Comes Our Strength

The return journey from the Vale of Arryn was, thus far, little more pleasant than the journey there had been, Catelyn reflected as she huddled inside a blanket that did little to keep her warm. She could hear the echoes of dripping water off the roof of the cave and the little splat sounds as they hit the floor. She could also hear the echoes of men snoring. She ought to be sleeping as well; they would have yet another long, hard march as soon as the sun set, but sleep evaded her. Restlessly she turned onto her back and prayed for sleep to come. Yet again the Gods didn’t seem to be listening because sleep did not come. Instead, she reflected on the events of the journey thus far.

&&

Having decided she must somehow get herself, Rodrik, Tyrion, and the men that had come with them out of this only-slightly-short-of-disaster she had created, she had discussed the matter at length with Ser Rodrik and Brynden the night she received the letter regarding the attempt to execute Ned — after they had been able to calm her, that was. They had each supplied what they knew.

Ser Rodrik had received word from Edmure earlier that day. Jaime Lannister had finally reappeared and was gathering a host. Edmure had sent riders to find out Lord Tywin’s intent, but Tywin had refused to treat with him or even give an answer. After that, Edmure had set two of his best men to guard the pass below the Golden Tooth. He’d sent word he would not yield a single foot of Tully land unless he first watered it with Lannister blood. Such actions from Edmure also darkened Catelyn’s mood, as it had to mean her father was very ill indeed to have given Edmure the command in this matter.

Brynden reported, still with a great degree of irritation, that he and Lysa had argued earlier in the day. They disagreed about what should be done in response to both Edmure’s letter and this new turn of events in which an attempt had been made on Eddard’s life. Brynden immediately wanted to take a command of a thousand men and go south to support Edmure and the fighting in the Riverlands. The battle-hardened Blackfish could not imagine not going to support his family when they needed him: Family, Duty, Honor after all. However, Lysa had been completely opposed to that idea. Not only could the Vale not spare a thousand men, she had said, they could not spare even one. She had gone on to point out that her Uncle’s place was in the Vale as Knight of the Gate. The Blackfish had gotten his temper up and spat at Lysa that she would have to find herself a new Knight of the Gate; he would leave on the morrow for Riverrun with or without her help or blessing.

Catelyn added that Robb had told her he had called the banners and was already on his way to Moat Cailin with some twelve thousand men and, though Robb had wanted her to go to Winterfell, she desperately wanted to see Robb. And she wished to talk to him in person about all that had transpired. Not to mention, she was not about to let her beloved Nuncle head off on the High Road alone. That was surely a death sentence in and of itself.

She also spoke with them about all she had learned from Tyrion and of her guilt and doubts regarding his involvement. “I cannot say another Lannister did not do this thing, but I think I believe Tyrion had nothing to do with it. And Lysa seems set on this trial idea even if Tyrion was meant to be my prisoner.” Catelyn had said, worry evident in the lines on her face and the tone of her voice. “I think we may not have any choice but to leave — without Lysa’s knowledge or permission. Elsewise, Tyrion is going to wind up dead and that will just create…”

“Disaster,” Ser Rodrik filled in.

“Yes,” Catelyn said with a sigh.

“That would require you to persuade Lannister to come with us,” Brynden had said, doubtfully.

“Well, do you suppose he’d rather stay here and take his chances with my sister?” Catelyn had asked.

“Well, I know what he might have in mind.” When Catelyn had bid him continue Brynden said, “Ask that sell-sword to stand in as his champion in a trial by combat.”

“Sounds like a risk — even with a sell-sword,” Rodrik said, rubbing his white beard that was finally beginning to grow back. “Moreover, whose to say the sell-sword would accept? Lannister is probably already quite a bit in debt to him. Even though Lannisters always pay their debts, every man has a limit.”

“But if he goes with us, he would remain a prisoner. He’s not like to accept that.” Brynden had pointed out.

Catelyn bit her lip in thought. “Perhaps, but it would give Lord Tywin the chance to ransom him. I doubt Lysa would be willing to accept that. We would.”

“A very fair point,” Rodrik stated.

And so, off Catelyn had gone to the sky cells for the second time that night.

Ultimately, a few more hours saw them sneaking out with just meager supplies as quickly as possible — before Lysa could guess what was happening beneath her nose. The weight of their actions weighed heavily on Catelyn’s shoulders even now. What they had done was not honorable. It was, she supposed, dutiful and loyal to at least half her family. Still, she did not feel easy about it.

It might have been easier to take a ship and avoid the Highroad altogether, but none were leaving that day, and they hardly had time to charter one. They had to be away before either Mord woke from the smack over the head Ser Rodrik had given him (though he would like as not be pleased with the bag of gold coins Tyrion had left beside his prone form when it was done) or before Lysa realized they were gone. It meant they would have to take their chances with the High Road and then go North to Moat Cailin from there.

Within a day, Tyrion and Bronn had begun to argue with one another, irritating everyone. Bronn thought it best to ride fast and hard through the Vale to get off the High Road as soon as possible. They could ride at night and hole up in the caves during the day in hopes of not meeting mountain clans. Meanwhile, Tyrion believed they should accept that meeting clansmen was inevitable and that they might as well try to bargain with them. The two of them had turned surly and snappish with each other irritating both Ser Rodrik and Blackfish to no end.

“What is it you expect to bargain to them with? The mountain clans aren’t like to accept gold, Lannister.” Brynden had finally said, irritation and exhaustion plain in his voice. “No, we can’t take that risk. I’ve dealt with these clans for years. The likelihood of them letting us pass is right slim. We’ll do what Bronn suggests.”

Tyrion had grumbled most of the next day and the one after below his breath — low insults about insufferable Tullys and Starks — but ultimately went along with the decision as he had little other choice. On one particular night when he seemed less able to hold his tongue he had growled at Catelyn to ask why, if she believed him innocent, that she still held him prisoner.

Catelyn, tired and irritated, had wanted to grumble right back but managed to hold her temper. Fighting amongst themselves was absolutely pointless. “Frankly, this is not just about guilt or innocence at this point. Your sister or nephew tried to kill my husband and currently holds my daughters hostage. Until I have them back, you remain my prisoner. Because you are the only hope I have of getting them back.”

“And if I just leave?” Tyrion had responded testily.

“You’ll be back in chains before you take ten steps, Lannister.” Brynden Tully warned, sitting up and putting a hand to the hilt of his sword, ready to back up his words with steel.

“And don’t think the sell sword will be an issue for _two_ battle hardened men. We’ll deal with him and find you within the hour and be far less amiable when we do,” Ser Rodrik added.

Tyrion had put his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “All right. I take your point. I remain your prisoner.” At least, Tyrion thought, he’d been able to persuade Bronn to stay with the promise of even more gold. In case worse came to worse…

&&

And those events were the ones that had led them to their current place. Fortunately, they had nearly reached the end of the High Road without trouble. If their luck continued to hold, they would be out of the Vale within a day or two and riding for Moat Cailin where Catelyn would be able to reunite with Robb.

She was anxious to see her son and anxious to find out what the possibilities were for getting Ned and the girls back. She regretted ever having tried to persuade Ned to go south. She felt a fool. Ned had wanted to stay North and avoid the ‘pit of vipers’ as he called King’s Landing. Why had she not listened?

It was her last thought before she finally drifted into a fitful sleep

&&

It was a relief to finally be out of the Vale and off the High Road. It appeared that Bronn’s strategy had paid off. The trek had been difficult, and Ser Rodrik and Brynden and pushed them such a fast pace it had been difficult for everyone else to manage. Nonetheless, they had escaped the Vale unscathed to everyone’s relief.

Catelyn had thought that when they left the Vale Bronn was likely to go his own way, but he did not. Privately, Catelyn wondered how much gold Tyrion had promised him to continue to remain even though Tyrion was still a prisoner, and she wondered how long his willingness to cooperate would last.

Regardless, it hadn’t been a bad thing to have a sell sword along with them in case of trouble along the road. Catelyn had always been averse to sell swords since they flew in the face of her moral code, but even she had to admit that they had their place and that Bronn did not seem a bad sort beyond his occupation.

The danger on the Kingsroad seemed almost negligible after they escaped the High Road unscathed. Nonetheless, they kept to the trees and took turns keeping a watch through the night and took no extra risks. When Tyrion made a jape about staying once more at the Crossroads Inn, Ser Rodrik had glared at him and said, “Thank you, but I think not. Enough trouble has already occurred there for a good long time.”

Truthfully, Tyrion agreed with him, but the jape had been too good not to make. Realistically, the likelihood of anyone coming back to look for him where they had left from originally was slim. Moreover, if his father or Jaime _had_ sent men to look for them, it had been nearly three moons since he was taken prisoner, and Catelyn had stated loudly she would be taking him to Winterfell. Any men who had been sent to look for him would be long in the North by now. Damn her. Catelyn Stark was playing the game of thrones far too well for Tyrion’s liking.

&&

The day they came close enough to see Moat Cailin far on the horizon, Catelyn’s heart could have taken wing and soared above the tallest mountains in the Vale of Arryn. Though she could not make out the banners clearly, she could tell they were white with dark at the center — it could be nothing but the grey direwolf of House Stark. Catelyn had, perhaps, never been so relieved to see her husband’s banner in all her life. It meant they were safe now after near some three moons of trekking across Westeros in fear for her family at every turn. Though her uncle pointed out, rightly so, that the Moat looked like a death trap for those inside as well as outside, Catelyn remembered what Ned had taught her about the place and knew it was not so.

Catelyn sent up a silent, fervent prayer of thanks to the Gods for keeping them safe — and Robb safe — for now at least. Her heart had been in her throat every moment since she had learned he had called the Banners and was marching south to engage the Lannisters. Robb had passed his fifteenth nameday — another guilt; Catelyn had not been there to celebrate it with him. She had never missed one of her children’s namedays before. Meanwhile, Tywin and Jaime Lannister were true soldiers with years of experience. She could remember so many moments with Robb: when he had taken his first hesitant steps, when he said his first words, when he had his first lessons. He was her first child and not even yet a man grown but now he shouldered the burdens of a man nonetheless.

But Catelyn knew her fears were not to be assuaged any time soon. Robb had come too far to turn back now. Ser Rodrik had told her that if he was correct in his estimate of the number of men who would have joined Robb during his trek from Winterfell to Moat Cailin he had some eighteen thousand men at his command by this point — and now he was the liege lord to them. They must see him as a man, and if he withdrew now they would see only a foolish child rather than someone they must needs respect. It also meant that when he emerged from the Moat somehow looking older than when she had last seen him and said “_Mother_,” with such emotion in his voice, she still could not run and take him in her arms as she longed to do. Instead, she had to settle for waiting whilst all the other Lords greeted her.

She might have snapped when Roose Bolton approached and begged a moment. Tensions and suspicion had run high between House Bolton and House Stark for centuries and Lord Roose with his near colorless, grey eyes and frightening, soft voice did not put Catelyn at her ease by any means. Nonetheless, she contained herself and beckoned him forward. They could not afford to fight amongst themselves, and Ned had always managed Roose with courtesy — Catelyn would do the same.

“As I have heard it told, you have taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner.”

“As of yet, I have not grown so small as to be invisible,” Tyrion snapped.

Catelyn wondered at Tyrion’s daring and stood in stunned silence for just a moment while Roose Bolton simply stared at the dwarf in a way that Catelyn believed would have made many taller, stronger men flinch. Tyrion did not.

“So you have brought him to us! Well done, Lady Stark! We will be able to make excellent use of such a valuable prisoner.”

In response to his liege lord’s words, one of Bolton’s men stepped forward and gripped Tyrion by the shoulders. Tyrion was stronger than the man expected, however, and wrenched loose a shoulder, a hand coming out of his boot with a dagger that Catelyn somehow had not realized he had — had he had it all this time? Surely not!Using his short stature to his advantage, Tyrion leaned down to reach the man’s foot much faster than could be predicted from a person of average height and drove the knife right through the boot and the toe beneath.

Bolton’s man uttered a string of curses and leapt away in shock, trying to pull the knife from his foot, unhanding Tyrion in the process. Roose went to reach for Tyrion, but he quickly stepped backward just out of Roose’s grasp while Roose glared at him, anger now in his eyes. “You are a brave little half-man aren’t you? Some would see you dead for that.”

Catelyn finally found her tongue and held her hand up. “Gentlemen, we are all travel weary and of ill humor because of it. The specifics of this situation can be sorted out when we have eaten and rested. Tyrion Lannister is my prisoner and, as such, remains under my charge and no other. Now, you will excuse us.” It was not a request.

Robb watched what played out before him in surprise and even respect. “Take him somewhere befitting of his station and see that he is brought a hot meal and a bath.”

Roose Bolton raised a single eyebrow. “You would have your mother tell you what to do, Lord Stark?”

Robb’s face flushed in irritation. He could see why Father did not always trust Roose Bolton. To be sure, he was a military genius and could be relied upon for his loyalty to the North, but as a man, well, that was something different altogether. “I would do what is most likely to get cooperation and results, Lord Bolton,”

Robb’s voice was tight with anger but well-hidden enough that only Catelyn was able to recognize it as such.

“We gain nothing by treating him badly. Lord Tywin will expect that he not be harmed when it is time to negotiate for the return of our own hostages. Moreover, he is far more likely to cooperate with us if we do not act offensively toward him.”

“He,” Tyrion inserted, clearly rankled, “Is able to speak for himself and prefers young Lord Stark’s suggestions.” 

Catelyn had to press her lips together to keep a slight smile from appearing on her lips. If she had learned anything at all in the last three moons it was that Tyrion Lannister was certainly neither daunted nor defined by his size. Nonetheless, it would not do to let Lord Bolton know of her amusement at his expense, so she merely looked at the muddy ground biting her lip and recognizing that Robb had grown into a young man of which Ned would be proud.

Bolton stepped back with a somewhat incredulous expression but said no more. His expression eventually changed to one that suggested he understood Robb’s logic whether he agreed with it or not.

“I would have my evening meal with you, My Lady.” Robb said, offering his arm to his mother, which Catelyn took.

“I would like that very much, Robb.”

It was only when they were, at last, alone in Robb’s quarters that Catelyn dared throw her arms around her son and felt his tight grip in response, communicating the combination of fear, determination, and excitement with no need of words while Catelyn held her precious almost-a-man son and pressed a warm kiss to the top of his head even though it made Robb blush and wriggle awkwardly.

&&

It was only after Catelyn had talked with Robb at length, some decisions had been reached, and she had eaten that she allowed a servant to bring a bath for her. However, she sent the woman away when she offered to wash Catelyn’s hair for her. More than anything, Catelyn just wanted to be alone and think through everything that had transpired over the past three moons and take stock of her current situation.

As she scrubbed herself she thought back to her conversation with Robb. She had told him of everything that had transpired since they had been apart save what he already knew from the letters they had exchanged. He told her that he would have her go back to Winterfell with Ser Rodrik, but she had declined stating that she would go south with them to see her Lord Father at Riverrun. She would send Ser Rodrik back as Castellan of Winterfell to assist Maester Casales. Catelyn took solace in that the young man had been sent to them allowing Maester Luwin to come south with Robb to tend to injuries and give wise counsel.

Catelyn had asked if Robb had had word of Sansa and Arya to which he responded he had gotten a letter. “It’s old. Based on the date, this is before they attempted to execute Father. And I have heard nothing since then. Witnesses at the Sept… the talk is that Sansa fainted and has not been seen outside the Red Keep since. I.. I do not even know if she is okay.” And she had heard the still-boy in his voice, fears and doubts creeping in. He took a breath to steady himself and continued. “That doesn’t even begin to explain the strange tales coming out of King’s Landing about how Father survived.”

Robb had then briefly explained a tale that Catelyn would have been completely incredulous to the authenticity of if not for the fact that the number of witnesses was so astoundingly large.

She had asked to see the letter and was able to see at a glance that Robb had clearly crumpled it in frustration a number of times. Spreading it on the table, Catelyn read it quickly and recognized that the letter might be written in Sansa’s hand, but it was not the way her eldest daughter spoke. No, this letter was from Cersei Lannister. It brought with it only terror and grief — they had Sansa and had no intention to return her. Moreover, Arya was not even mentioned; what was she to make of that? She felt Grey Wind put his giant head in her lap and petted him, grateful for the comfort.

Catelyn had admitted that with the decisions Robb had made, his only hope was to try to defeat his foes. There was no hope of him ever leaving King’s Landing if he went and swore fealty.

“Like grandfather and uncle Brandon.” Robb had said, anger flashing in his eyes as he crumpled the letter agin.

“Yes,” Catelyn had said with tired sigh. “Could you not make your stand here? Kings of old have been able to defeat hosts much larger than their own using the defenses of Moat Cailin. It has never been taken by the South.”

“Believe me, I considered that. But, I do not think we have enough provisions to make our stand here. And that is if Lord Tywin comes so far. Lord Galbert, Lord Reed, and Lord Bolton say Lord Tywin is too smart to try an invasion from a south given its lack of success for thousands of years. Instead, he has been invading the Riverlands, burning as he goes. He means to continue it until only Riverrun stands alone, and with winter coming and no promise of a long autumn…”

Catelyn had nodded, dread continuing to fill her. “I am sure you have had many ideas put forth by excellent, experienced Lords.”

“I have,” Robb had confirmed.

“So, what is it you mean to do, son?”

Robb had pulled out a map and pointed out his battle plan. “I have no intention of swinging around Lord Tywin’s host and winding up caught between he and the Kingslayer. And we will take too many losses if we attack him directly in any case. We must fight smarter rather than harder. Instead, I would leave Lord Reed in command here along with a small force of archers — that would secure the Neck. Then, past the Neck, I could split my host in two — those on foot could go on the Kingsroad and those mounted could cross the Green Fork at the Twins.”

And of course Robb fully intended to take the more dangerous route of going with the mounted men. Catelyn had been able to feel her guts twisting inside her but had waited for him to continue. She saw one problem; he would be putting a river between his own host, but she would see him work it out for himself before she offered her thoughts. These were lessons he must learn, and quickly.

Robb had continued then, “I see what you are thinking, Mother. Yes, my host would be split, but so would The Kingslayer and Lord Tywin. They cannot cross the Green Fork above the Ruby Ford — it’s impossible. The only place they could cross would be at the Twins. That is held by Lord Frey — _your_ Father’s bannerman.”

“That does not mean we can trust him. The Freys have never before failed to exact a toll for those hoping to cross the bridge, and I highly doubt we will be the exception. Moreover, my Father has never trusted Lord Frey,” Catelyn had pointed out.

“I will not trust him, but I believe it is the best option we have — toll or not.” Robb had admitted with a small sigh. “_And_ if we pay his toll, and we set some of our own conditions —for example we could take a son as our ward at winterfell — and we also take into account that he is your father’s bannerman,” He paused and then finished, “that should be sufficient to ensure he does not turn his cloak on us, no?”

“It is a risk,” Catelyn had said slowly, “But, I.. Yes. I see your sense in going about it this way. It is also not what Tywin Lannister will expect from a green boy.”

Robb’s lips at her approval pulled up into a smile, “_Exactly_.”

Catelyn had finally allowed herself a laugh and pulled Robb into her arms once more. “Yourfather raised you well. I am proud of you, my sweet Robb.”

Robb had let her hold him for only a second before freeing himself from her grasp. “Mother,” He had protested, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment.

“My apologies. You must forgive a foolish, old Mother her foibles.”

“You are neither old nor foolish, Mother. And I love you.” He had said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her cheek (when had he gotten taller than her?)“But we had best both get some sleep. Lord Manderly’s men arrived yesterday, and we have been making plans to leave. We ride on the morrow. I am sorry you will have no more time to rest…”

“I will rest in Riverrun when I have seen my Lord Father.” Catelyn had told him, drawing once more on the reserves of strengths that she could only pray would not run dry before this was done.

“Until the morrow then. I would have one of the Greatjon’s men escort you to your chambers.”

“On the morrow then, and I would be appreciative.” She had paused once more at the doorway and turned back to him. “Robb,” she paused again, clearly trying to find her words and Robb was, for a moment, horrified to think she might cry, but she didn’t. “I am so very proud of you. Your father would be as well.”

&&

Satisfied with all they had planned, Catelyn turned herself to finishing her bath before the water became cold and then sought out her bed. She was weary enough she knew she would sleep despite her worries.

* * *

_He was running. He was running! He was running for real and for true this time!_

_Not only was he running but his brothers and sisters were beside him — all save one. That had never happened before. They had never run together as a grown pack! How long had it been since they had all been together? How many moons had come and gone in the night sky above them since he had been with his pack? Too many. He needed them. They needed each other. They were far stronger together than apart. And they needed their humans with them too. Their humans were part of their pack as well. They were one with them too, human and wolf. They thought and ran as one — again, all save one._

_The wisps of fog wrapped around them like specters as they ran, paw pads utterly silent across the frost-covered ground. It was no matter, their glowing eyes could penetrate the fog with ease. It only served as beauty, a beauty only fitting for winterfell. They ran through the Wolfswood free, strong, beautiful, together._

_They could have run for hours; he did not know. But, finally, they ended up on a pile on the ground. They play growled and made happy whines at each other, rolling all over each other, nipping and tugging and tussling as they had done as small puppies. They were not small anymore, but it was no less enjoyable to play and romp together. Nymeria nuzzled Summer’s face. Grey Wind and Ghost rolled and tumbled, play fighting each other for the dominant position though they all knew it belonged to Nymeria anyway._

_Shaggydog held back from them, hesitant, fearful. He sat back on his haunches, yawned, and his tongue licked out showing his nervousness._

_Summer looked at him with pain in his eyes as he remembered it would have been Lady, the gentlest of them, who would have gone to reassure him. Summer went instead moving toward Shaggydog, curving into a C of friendly politeness, of reassurance and then gave a gentle play bow to the black wolf, cocking his head to the side. You can trust us. _You can play with us. We are your pack. _The huge black direwolf looked at him; then, ever so slowly, he wagged his tail once. Summer leaped and yipped in excitement, rolling to his back to further demonstrate that Shaggydog was safe. Suddenly Shaggydog was on him, rolling and licking his face as joy radiated from him. They rolled and played as Grey Wind and Ghost did, under the light of a waning crescent moon that would soon again be new._

_Nymeria broke from them while Summer had distracted himself with Shaggydog and moved across the clearing to follow the scent to what they had come for. Nymeria saw her piled on the ground. She seemed to be made of gleaming silver. She looked too tired to move. She was beautiful in her slightly glowing light. But Nymeria could see at a glance how badly she was hurt. A vicious cut ran along her flank, deep to the bone. Her breathing was slow, so was the sound of her heart. She was so weak, so hurt, so _broken_. Nymeria began to lick her sister’s face, trying to rouse her from the sleep she could fall into forever. From the sleep that could take her and Sansa from them forever._ _Lady let out a piteous whine at the lightest of touches, but Nymeria had to. She could not let her go. No! They needed each other! But she could not do it alone._

_Nymeria sat back on her haunches and howled to the moon, to her pack, to get their attention. Play could come again later. Lady could not wait much longer. She lingered, barely breathing, seeping her bonded’s strength to keep from being gone forever. If this shade body too was gone or her bonded gone they would lose her. Nymeria could not bear it. She could not, _would not_ lose her sister. She howled again._

_Before long, the play was over and the others of the pack ran toward them through the trees, easily following the scent they had left behind and the scent of Lady’s blood. So much blood, Ghost realized. It was not good. But he held back unsure. His Bonded had always been unsure of Lady’s and he mirrored it with Lady herself. Nymeria licked and licked, overcome with guilt as Shaggydog sidled nervously beside Summer. Nymeria howled again, demanding. She could not do this alone. They must be brave. Lady was brave, surely they all could be too._

_Finally, they came together some boldly and some hesitantly but together nonetheless and began to lick her. Though she was only made of something like light, they could still feel her fur beneath their tongues. They licked, whined, pawed in some mixture of desperation and encouragement both. At first, she did not have the strength. She lifted a paw over her face to avoid their tongues and whimpers, for she did not have the strength to crawl away from them. She did not have the strength to fight and her whimper, her sadness showed it._

_But she had to, she _had_ to, Nymeria insisted with her licks. She nosed Lady’s paw away from her head and began again._

_It was Ghost, to the pack’s surprise, who laid beside Lady as Nymeria licked her muzzle and head. Slowly, with some hesitance as he did not know her reaction, Ghost began to lick away the blood from her flank. He cleaned and cleaned her with such gentleness as he could manage so he would not cause her further harm. Even then, she occasionally let out a pained yelp and he would look up at her in concern before going back to licking, helping her._

_Finally, he laid his great head and paws across her shoulder so he would not be too close to her wound. He felt the energy between them. He felt the connection that was always there within the pack. The connection that was so much stronger when they were together. It was stronger than it had ever been tonight — stronger than it had been any time since Winterfell, since home. He buried his muzzle in her thick fur and stayed still. He could feel his energy growing, could feel it helping Lady, could feel himself sharing his strength with her. She needed his strength and he had it to give. He was the biggest and strongest of the pack._

_His strength filled her and he watched as her side began to knit itself together once more. It was not perfect. It was not strong, not yet._

_It was a start._

* * *

Tully blue eyes snapped open in the darkness of an unfamiliar room.

In that exact moment, so did three more sets of Tully blue and two of Stark grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: 
> 
> Up next: Can Sansa handle the pressure as things in King’s Landing worsen?


	8. Moon Four (First Quarter) -- Nightmares Exist Not Only In My Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa awakens to a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has had an amazing holidays and Happy New Year! 
> 
> Some notes: 
> 
> \- Sansa is forced to do things in this chapter that would be extremely difficult for a person who has been in a coma for a month. Her ability to follow instructions is likely adrenaline as she knows the consequences of not obeying would be dire even deadly. 
> 
> \- Likewise.. Joffrey Baratheon is his own warning. And he’s expressing some lovely violent tendencies in this chapter. Reader discretion advised. 
> 
> \- The content for this is of course based on a canon chapter though I’ve changed things around as I can. Everything belongs to GRRM. 
> 
> \- I’ve started to somewhat use more descriptive moon phases to help remind myself exactly when in the month things are occurring compared to each other. However, it’s far from a perfect science and, of course, doesn’t use all the phases each month so as to denote proper passage of time. If anything gets messed up, please forgive me. 
> 
> \- No new playlist updates this time, but there will be some for next chapter! 
> 
> \- Thank you so much for all the reviews and love! SkySamuelle, Highflyer, KatMorgan, Joan_of_Arc, and Lindsayr28 thanks for reviewing last chapter! It just astounds me that so many people are interested in reading my stuff. Thank you to everyone who reads!

Moon Four (First Quarter)

Nightmares Exist Not Only In My Dreams

_Tully blue eyes snapped open in the darkness of an unfamiliar room._

Sansa Stark would have sat up as fast as she could if her body would have allowed it. It didn’t. In fact, she realized that her body felt leaden, heavy, and she couldn’t sit up at all, let alone quickly. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue furry for want of water. She was confused. The last thing she remembered was…

Oh Gods! Was her father okay? Was Lady? What had even happened?

Sansa was so confused. It was as if she and Lady were one for a brief moment, as if she could feel her inside. Then the thing had come. She remembered seeing it for just a second and then falling as the hard marble of the steps rose to meet her. Hesitantly, she lifted her hands to her face and the responding pain made her stop immediately. She could not see the bruises but knew they were there if the agony in her face when she tried to touch it was anything to judge by. Her head throbbed, and she felt dizzy even though she was lying down.

And there was something else strange too. She found herself thinking very heavily about her siblings, each of them, no matter where they were in the world. And, perhaps most oddly, she thought of Jon as well. Sansa had never seen Jon as more than a half brother who did not really belong. Now, she felt as oddly and suddenly connected to him as she did to each of her siblings. She wished she could write to him and apologize for all of the times she had been unkind to him. That was impossible, though. Jon was at the wall, and Sansa had no idea when she would see him again — if she ever would. They would never let her write to Jon or any of her siblings. Yet, somehow… she felt closer to them as the dream she had been having when she woke came back to her.

It was the strangest dream she had ever had. It was not like the dream where Lady had come to her all of those weeks before when she had warned that difficult times lay ahead. In those, she could see Lady. In this, she _was _lady. She saw the world through wolf eyes, heard sound in a completely new way, and her vision was odd too. But it was the smell that really caught her off guard. It was as if, while human, she could smell nothing at all. With her side bleeding and leaving a trail for some hungry predator to follow, she walked until she could no longer before collapsing in a forest and waiting for death to come.

Death for whatever she was now. She had no true form. She could see the light silver that seemed to make up her paws. It did not matter. She did not need to know what she was made of. It wouldn’t matter when she died. Her only thought was to wonder if Sansa was all right and hope that she was. Then, her siblings had come. They had all come, even Ghost. No, Not hers. Lady’s siblings. There it was again. She and Lady as one. They had licked her and then Ghost had done something to her side. It was if he had knit it back together somehow, and then laid across her shoulder until she felt strong enough to rise to shuddering feet again. Then, her eyes had opened, not as Lady’s but as Sansa’s own.

She could not begin to make sense of the dream.

She needed to sit up. She needed to find Joffrey. If she didn’t, he would be angry with her that she had slept so much that day. Or, at the very least, she needed to find Cersei or someone, anyone. She needed to. But she could not move. Not only was she too weak, but she realized she was bundled into bed linens and furs as tight as a swaddled babe, hands, legs, and all. It must have been hours by now!

And the more she tried to move, the more she realized her muscles would not respond. For a moment, she was scared perhaps she was paralyzed like Bran. But no, she could wiggle her toes. She just felt as if her whole body was made of something too heavy. She remembered, once, that Father had let her hold Ice. She had barely been able to lift it. At the moment, she felt as if her body was made of Ice’s Valyrian Steel.

“You are awake!” A truly surprised voice came from the doorway and Sansa managed to crane her head up off the pillows to see Grand Maester Pycelle in the doorway. “We had begun to worry about you my lady.”

“I must get up! I have to go and see Joffrey. I..” She was fighting the sheets now, but it was sapping her strength badly.

“Lay still. You have been asleep for a moon’s turn. Your muscles are weak from disuse, and it is going to take time for you to regain your strength. I will get some broth for you. I think we had best start with simple liquids.”

“A moon’s turn…” Sansa whispered in something a mixture of shock and horror. Joffrey would be furious, not to mention Cersei. And she dare not ask Pycelle what had happened during her time asleep or how Joffrey had reacted to the news that she apparently had been unable to wake all of this time.

As Sansa drank her broth and Maester Pycelle explained to her what brief information they had seen since she slept. She had lain unable to be woken for a month. “You were as one who is dead. Nothing could rouse you.” And Sansa wondered if her physical state mirrored Lady’s — her as Lady? — During her dream until Ghost had woken her along with all her pack. But this was too odd for her to ever consider divulging to anyone. She could not trust any of them.

“My father?” Sansa knew she should not ask. She knew she should not ask, but she had to. She had to know if her father was alive. Still, she should not. Her father was branded a traitor, and every time she had tried to speak on his behalf, it had ended in disaster. She felt a bitterness, an anger enter her chest, burning its way to her throat like nothing she had ever felt before when she thought of Joffrey and how he had answered her request that he be ‘merciful’ to her father. She could only imagine the deaths Joffrey could have arranged for him, but death had not been what Sansa had wanted. She wanted him to be allowed to take the black.

What Sansa wanted didn’t matter, hadn’t mattered for a long time. It was something she’d best get used to quickly if she was going to survive. Did she even want to? The thought that, for the first time in her life, she might welcome death was frightening. Then, she thought of Arya. Somewhere in the Red Keep, her sister was also a prisoner. Guilt crept around her as she thought, once again, of how she had treated Arya. Arya might be insufferable at times, but Sansa was still the older sibling and should have behaved as such. No matter; it was too late to change now. But somewhere Arya was here and Sansa needed to find her.

“He remains in the Black Cells. He is a traitor, and you would do well to remember it.” There was a thinly veiled warning in Pycelle’s voice, though it did not seem to hold malice.

“Of course. He is a traitor, and I am loyal to King Joffrey and him alone.” Sansa repeated. By now, the words came as if something she had memorized. They were hollow and empty, but it was what needed to be said and what others seemed to want to hear.

Pycelle nodded, “I should go inform His Grace and the Queen that you have woken.”

Sansa stared after him wishing he would not go — not if it meant he was going to get Joffrey or the Queen.

She could not bring her words to hold much emotion, but saying them seemed to at least be somewhat effective. People seemed to withdraw a bit from her, satisfied they had heard what they wished to. Whether they believed it or not was different, but it was all Sansa could do. If cartwheels would have persuaded them to believe her, she likely would have done them. Only their belief would keep Sansa safe. She must harden her heart and do it, no matter how it hurt her inside.

She remembered how much she had wanted to come here, how much she had wanted to marry Prince Joffrey. She remembered how she had begged her Father and said he must let her. She remembered how many fights she had had with Arya along the way. How foolish and naive and stupid she had been. She felt nauseous now even thinking of it. She had ruined everything, absolutely everything. Now, her family had to pay the price for her selfishness. Perhaps, she thought, they would all hate her. Maybe even Jon Snow on the wall hated her. She swore a second time for true that she would treat him as a real brother if she ever saw him again, just as she did Robb and Bran and Rickon. But would she ever see _any _of them again?

The thought of being left alone with these people: with Joffrey and Queen Cersei filled her with a dread and terror she could not have put words to even if she had tried. As if her dark thoughts were some kind of premonition for bad things to come, she heard Joffrey’s voice in the stairs. “If she is awake then she will come with me. I do not care for the way you babble old man.”

“Your Grace, I truly must advise — ”

“I have heard what you advise and I say she is not as sick as she pretends she is. She is going to come with me, and you will make her ready to do so, and that is my command.”

Sansa shuddered and saw Joffrey in the doorway with Pycelle and the Hound. Once, she would have looked away from his hideous, burned face, but she did not now. She understood that some carried their wounds on the outside, but it did not make them so different from those who carried them on the inside.

“You will attend me in court this afternoon. See that you bathe and dress as befits my betrothed.” Joffrey said as he entered the room.

Sansa thought about walking beside Joffrey in court, about standing there while he heard petitions for hours. She thought about even the amount of strength it would take to stand and thought she would not be able to do it. She was not sure her heart would bear it either. Not that something like that mattered.

“No.. Please just leave me be. I beg of you, my prince.” She whispered, voice quavering at her own daring to disobey. Another mistake.

Joffrey’s voice cracked like a whip. “I am king now. Dog, get her out of bed.” Joffrey’s eyes sparkled without a hint of warmth in them. How had Sansa once thought him handsome?

She gasped in pain as Sandor Clegane hauled her to her feet, his arms impacting bruises from her fall to the marble. She wanted to cover herself in her thin shift. “Do as you are bid. Dress.” He sat Sansa on her feet and pushed her slightly toward the wardrobe. For a moment, she swayed perilously on her feet, not sure she would be able to stand. She had been asleep a month and her muscles seemed so much weaker now. She couldn’t even stand. The Hound had to haul her to her feet again, and this time he held onto her and steered her toward the Wardrobe, though not ungently.

“Your Grace! I must…” Pycelle tried again.

Joffrey rounded on him in fury. “I told you I had heard you and have made up my mind. You will keep silent if you do not wish to lose your tongue. Or, perhaps your head.” Joffrey laughed at his own joke and Sansa shuddered.

Later, she wondered what had possessed her to even try to refuse something Joffrey wanted.

She leant against the wardrobe as her legs would barely hold her. “I did as the queen asked. I wrote the letters. I wrote them. I wrote everything she told me. You promised you’d be merciful.” Her voice cracked on that word. “Please, please just let me go home. I won’t do any treason. I will be good. I swear it. I have no traitor’s blood. I don’t. I don’t!” Her voice had reached a keening note that was almost hysterical as her body shook with exertion. She was not even sure where she was finding the strength to remain standing except that she was terrified of the man before her — all three of them really. “Please, as it please you let me go home!”

“It does _not_ please me. Mother says I’m still to marry you, so you will stay here, and you will _obey_.” The tone in his voice when he said that word was cruel. His eyes were so cold it frightened her. There was not a hint of any human emotion she felt able to connect with. Her gallant, handsome prince had turned into a monster. When had it happened? Or perhaps he had always been this way and she just refused to notice it. Stupid girl. Stupider still was her choice to speak instead of do as she was bid.

“I don’t want to marry you! You tried to kill my father!”

“He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I’d be merciful. Had he not been your father and had you not begged for mercy so prettily, I’d have had him flayed or perhaps torn. A quick death is too good for traitors. But you were very pretty when you begged. I like it when you beg.”

There was a note in his voice, something low that made Sansa fear him even more. There was something carnal and terrifying in the way he said he liked to see her _beg_. A fury filled her stronger than any she had ever known when she thought of Joffrey having her beloved father flayed or torn apart.

“I hate you.” It was a whisper she hoped he would not hear, but he did.

Joffrey’s face distorted in fury. “My mother tells me it isn’t fitting that a king should strike his lady. Ser Meryn.”

She was not able to shield her face in time as the Kingsguard knight, without ever hesitating, back-handed her across the face somewhere near her ear. His knuckles hit the bruises on her cheek and left her entire head ringing and dizzy as Sansa fell to the floor and knew she could not ever get up on her own. Her whole body was shaking from pain, fear, and exertion. Ser Meryn had struck her so hard he had blood seeping over his white gloved hand.

“Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?”

“I… yes.. I mean. I will do as you command, Your Grace.”

For a moment, she thought he meant to hit her himself as he advanced on her. Instead, he drew her to her feet as if she were no more than a child’s doll and shoved her back against the wardrobe with force. “_Get dressed_.” His voice was dangerous and low, like the hiss of a venomous snake. “I shall look for you in court, and you will _not_ disappoint me.”

Sansa turned toward the wardrobe, needing to hold it to support herself still. Pycelle had gone now, and it was only Sandor Clegane left behind. He glared at her in a way that once would have filled her with fear, but since the night of the Hand’s tourney, she had not feared him, not truly. He was a better man than he allowed people to believe. For just a moment he met her eyes. “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.” His voice was rough, as it always was.

Sansa’s head was still ringing. She felt so weak and tired. “What does he want? Please, ser, please tell me.”

“I am no ser.” Clegane glared at her in a way that made Sansa shrink back. “He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love. He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words like a pretty little bird the way your septa taught you. He wants you to love him … and fear him.” And then he too left and Sansa was alone.

The second part was easy. Sansa was terrified of Joffrey. She was more scared of him than of anything she had ever been in all her life. But, love him? That, that Sansa knew she could not do. She could not love the man who had hurt her family, had tried to have her father killed. She wanted to cry, but she could not waste the energy on tears. She could barely stand. Her month in bed had left her weaker than she could have believed. She was not allowed to be weak.

Court seemed to drag on forever that day as Sansa struggled to stay standing. The only thing that allowed her to do it was that she knew failing might mean her life. Her life was not so important, but Arya and Father were still here. She could not leave them. It was in pure desperation that she managed to have the strength. After, she could hardly remember anything that was said; it had just been one long blur.

And then he wanted her to walk with him. She felt as if she might cry. Her legs already threatened to give out beneath her. The exhaustion was creeping over her faster and faster. But she knew she could not say no. Joffrey would have Ser Meryn ‘chastise’ her again if she did. Her ear still rang from before, and her face was a swollen mess of pain she could barely stand, let alone if he hit her again. So, she forced herself to ignore her failing strength and walk beside Joffrey.

He offered his arm. Sansa did not want to take it, but she had little choice. He told her his name day was approaching, told her of the feasts and gifts. And as he did she could not help but think he was a child, a monstrous child. He could see no one’s pain and suffering. He could see nothing. And then he wanted to know what she would give him. She realized she did not know what to say. She could not think of anything he would like.

“I… I had not thought, my lord.”

“_Your Grace_,” his voice was sharp and warning and Sansa mentally chastised herself for forgetting, yet again. She could not let herself forget anymore.

“You truly are a stupid girl, aren’t you? My mother says so.”

Sansa’s heart and stomach clenched painfully. Would Cersei’s words always have so much power over her? After everything, she would have thought they would not. And yet. They were like another barb in her heart. She remembered when she had wanted the Queen to like her, to be proud of her.

“She worries about our children, whether they’ll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself. I’ll have a child in your belly as soon as you’re able. If the first one is stupid, I’ll simply chop off your head and find a smarter wife.”

Sansa wanted to cringe away from him, but she dare not. It was not for her own life, she realized, that made her sad. She was past caring for her own life now. It was for a child that would be born into this. It was for a child that may be treated as she was being now, and the thought was almost more than should bear. But, once again, she must bear it. She must not show him her weakness. She must be, as the Hound said, a pretty little bird and chirp the pretty words she had been taught — no matter how they hurt.

“When do you think you’ll be able to have children?”

Sansa swallowed. She looked away so he would not see her face burning. “Septa Mordane said most… most highborn girls flower at twelve or thirteen.” She whispered, shame in every word.

And then, then, she realized where they were going. If she had had the strength she would have spun away, pulled, fought no matter how bad the beating was after. She tried to refuse. Her eyes were a blur of tears and redness she tried not to let fall. When she thought about it later, she would not remember how she made it to the top of the Gatehouse tower.

When they reached the top, Joffrey jerked her forward and pointed out what he wanted her to see. Heads, so many heads. She tried to focus her eyes on the river, on the city over the heads. She could turn her face toward them but not really see them.

But Joffrey realized what she was doing and jerked her shoulders hard. “I did not bring you up here to gaze at the river, you stupid fool. This is what I wanted you to see.” He grabbed hold of her hair and forced it around until she was looking at the line of heads. She realized then. It was every single person they had brought with them from Winterfell save herself, Arya, their father, and Beric Dondarrion who her Father had sent to look for the Kingslayer months ago. The realization caught her breath and made her wonder if she would be able to bear it. But somewhere inside she found her strength.

She drew her shoulders back and stood straight. “How long do I have to look, Your Grace?”

Joffrey seemed disappointed when the heads did not seem to upset her. It was only in her pillow tonight that she would let her tears come.

He walked her along the battlements and pointed out the empty spikes he’d saved for Renly and Stannis. He pointed out Septa Mordane specifically, which made Sansa want to be sick. Joffrey insisted she was a traitor, god-sworn or not.

He continued walking her along the rows and pointing out heads. There were so many: her sister’s dancing master, Jeyne Poole and her father Vayon, the men killed in the street fight including Jory at whom she had trouble looking, Henk, Kroner and Fat Tom their big, strong door guards, Heward and Wyl. There was Varly who had always had a kind word for her and would compliment her on her dresses and tease Arya. Her throat was so thick with unspent tears she couldn’t speak.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Joffrey said, a gleam twisted across his sadistically happy face. “And you’re right. Pretty soon, I’ll have your father’s head too. That spike right in the middle? That one is for your traitor father.”

He grinned at her, a leer, before continuing. “I’ll have his head on it. Then, I’ll bring you here again so you can see it especially. No one will stop me this time. Though maybe it will take me longer to lose my patience if you are a good girl and are perfect.”

Sansa tried to draw in a breath but found she couldn’t.

If she could make him happy, would it be enough time for Robb to make it to King’s Landing?

“And after I’ve done with him it will be your stupid little sister’s turn. I have a new sword now since she threw Brightroar away. It’s much stronger. Perhaps I’ll use it to slit her open before I have her head. I think that would be fitting, don’t you?”

Sansa swallowed. She could not bring herself to agree it would be fitting until she heard Meryn Trant approach behind her. “Yes,” was all she could manage.

Joff didn’t seem to care that it was half-hearted. Instead, he was talking again. He suggested that perhaps he’d give her a present for his name day instead of the traditional way round. He’d give her Robb’s head in a pretty box lined with black and purple silk. Sansa’s stomach rolled treacherously and she thought she might just be sick all over Joffrey’s boots but managed to stop herself just in time.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed and a hatred filled her. It was a blind rage with such strength as she had never felt, hadn’t even realized it was _possible_ to feel. And then she did something she knew was foolish indeed. Her mouth was moving before she could stop it, before her mind could catch up to how mad it was. “Maybe my brother will give me _your _head, Your Grace.” She added the last to the end almost as a reminder he had not let her forget earlier. And Joffrey’s face darkened as his fury built.

“You will never, ever, mock me as such again or it is your head that will don the spike in the middle. Ser Meryn!”

Ser Meryn beat her, holding her head still so he could strike her right to left and then left to right with a force that made her wonder if one could be beheaded with a slap alone. The bruises on her face, sickly green, were joined by red and purple marks of new bruises almost immediately. She tasted blood. Sansa looked out over the parapet into the outer bailey a good eighty feet below. She and Joffrey and Ser Meryn were standing right at the edge. It would take nothing, absolutely nothing, a tiny push and he would go over. Most like she would go with him, and it scared her to realize she didn’t even care.

But, somehow, the Hound seemed to know what she was thinking, for he moved between her and Joffrey. Her opportunity was lost.

She could not understand what he was doing when he pulled out a small cloth and then she realized he was, so gently, dabbing it on her broken lip. His delicacy was surprising as large a man as he was. She would have trembled in fear at any chance he might touch her given that Joffrey was smaller and could already incite such pain, but somehow she was not scared of Sandor Clegane, and that made no sense at all.

Slowly, she looked up and met his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.” And the word held so much emotion and more meaning than two simple words. She hoped he understood that this time she was not just chirping silly words taught to her but that she truly meant them.

That night she hoped she would dream of Lady. She hoped she would dream of her the way she had while she had been sleeping. Maybe they would be one in that odd way so Lady would give her strength and she would give Lady strength. She could not imagine losing her again now that she had begun to come to Sansa in her dreams.

But Lady did not come to her that night. Only nightmares came. Sansa woke to her pillow wet, her bed linens tangled round her legs from where she tossed and turned, and more soreness across her body than she knew how to manage, but she didn’t have choices. 

* * *

It was a sennight later that Cersei stood beside her son while Joffrey held court. She felt nauseous and sick from strain. She did not think she had ever been so consistently exhausted as what she now felt. Every day dawned with new horrors to face. Disquiet was growing in the city as people realized summer was over, fighting in the riverlands was increasing, soon there might not be enough food. Joffrey dealt with the smallfolk through taunts and crossbow quarrels. And Cersei felt powerless.

Yet, somehow, she was surprised when on an afternoon of no particular accord or special note, Tywin Lannister strode into the throne room. He completely ignored the man who announced him, walking halfway up the length to the Iron Throne before the man had even finished getting out his name.

“…Father?” She said, surprise evident in her tone. The last she knew her father, Jaime, and Kevan had been amassing a host to wait for Robb Stark as scouts told them he was now on the move from Moat Cailin and going south. It was a critical time and, yet, here he was. She even put voice to the words. “I am… surprised to see you.”

Tywin looked across at Cersei and Joffrey with an expression that did not belie any warmth or happiness to see either one of them. “You.” He pointed at Joffrey. “We will speak later.” Cersei had no doubt she would be on the list as well even though he had not specifically pointed her out. But she needn’t wait even that long.

He turned to her.“I am surprised to have to be here. But it has become evident to me that the little girl who wanted to play with power and politics as a little girl is as incapable of it as I told you that you would be then. I have simply been proven right. I am here to deal with all of this _mess_ the two of you have created.” He jabbed one finger at Joffrey and one at Cersei.

Joffrey opened his mouth to speak but Tywin beat him to it. “As I said, you and I will talk later. But for now you will be silent. I am here when I should be on the battlefield. I had no choice but to leave Jaime and Kevan in command of our forces. Competent as they are, this does not make me happy.” His eerie green and gold flecked eyes had such a glare in them that it took Cersei’s every bit of steel not to look away.

“Because of your incompetence, people all over the country are talking about magic or grumpkins or snarks or whatever the hell else happened here under the command of the two of you. Do _not_ tell me you tried to prevent it. You clearly did not try hard enough.” Tywin said before Cersei had barely opened her mouth to protest she had tried to stop Joff before the fiasco could occur.

For the first time, Tywin seemed to notice the court full of people. “What are you all doing still here? Court is done for the day. Get out of my sight!” He thundered. Smallfolk and lords alike were quick to oblige with the throne room clearing in record time.

“I am now Hand of the King.” He did not bother waiting to ask to be appointed before he continued, “I am going to straighten up this disaster. I am tired and hungry. After I have rested we will meet in the Tower of the Hand.” Tywin did not even deign to wait for a response from Joffrey about his acceptance or not of Tywin Lannister as hand. He did not need to wait and Cersei and Joffrey both knew it.

Tywin turned and stormed from the throne room, boots echoing on the stone floor with angry thuds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Next: Will Robb be willing to pay Lord Walder Frey’s Toll?


	9. Moon Four (Waxing Gibbous) -- With a Little Help From My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What toll is it he wants?” Something warned Robb that Lord Frey’s toll was going to be something he was not going to like. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Robb gets a little “help” along the way.
> 
> Alternatively: The Bear and the Maiden Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Initially I intended for this chapter and the next one to be a single chapter. However, it was just getting too long. This is 12k and the next threatens to be another 7-8k so I decided to split them. Hopefully you’ll still like the result! 
> 
> \- Once again, I’ve had to re-use some of GRRM’s content and some quotes for the beginning of this chapter. While I could have skipped it, I wanted to revisit it in Robb’s perspective and with his thoughts since we only get Catelyn’s in AGOT. So, disclaimer this all belongs to GRRM. We are also slowly but steadily diverging from canon and there are only a few more scenes with much bearing or relation to the canon course of events at all, for which I’m very glad! 
> 
> \- During this chapter, Catelyn does some sewing. I’m not 100% sure of Catelyn’s ability to embroider this fast, but I would think reusing as much work as she is and being an expert at sewing, she might be able to do it. If not… just give me some grace on it lol. 
> 
> \- Don’t worry, this fic is still heading toward Robbcella as endgame so don’t panic for those of you who are waiting for them! 
> 
> \- Along those lines: Dany is eventually coming too, I promise! Her story does not differentiate from her book canon until Slaver’s Bay, so she’s not around purely because.. There’s nothing new for me to write. But she WILL be here when the plot catches up and then there will be plenty of Dany (... probably more than either the Starks or the Lannisters like!) 
> 
> \- Playlist is updated, and I think you’ll love the new additions! Specific songs that related to this chapter are: Best Day of My Life and Marry You.
> 
> \- As always, I so desperately appreciate everyone who reads and reviews my work. When I log in to see a comment or a bookmark, my heart just fills with happiness and pride that someone somewhere cares enough about my writing to want to spend their time reading it! Thank you for reviews and plot help from last chapter to SkySamuelle, Not_So_Dark_One , Joan_of_Arc, Highflyer, KatMorgan, mludwig1256, Romancespy, FFSBran, and ThePerfumedSeneschal You guys are seriously AMAZING!

Moon Four (Waxing Gibbous)

With A Little Help From My Friends

* * *

Robb had been relieved when they had finally emerged from the massive swamp that made up the Neck of Westeros and into the Riverlands. Much as he was sad to leave Howland Reed’s easy smiles and good company behind at Moat Cailin, he was glad to no longer feel as if he was breathing water and be back on solid ground, even if it wasn’t familiar ground. It was also easier going for the horses as well. Unlike the ponies Howland and the other Crannogmen rode, the destriers had struggled with the footing on the narrow causeway.

It was also interesting to see the lands of his mother’s birth and girlhood as well. The land was rich, lush, and verdant, exactly the kind of thing Robb had pictured based on the name. He was looking forward to meeting more of his mother’s relatives when they reached Riverrun as well.

Robb could tell his mother was anxious. Truthfully, Robb was too, but he did his best not to let it show. His mother had told him to lead, and so he was leading. He could only hope he wasn’t making a grievous mistake. He found himself questioning every word, every action. It was enough to make a man go mad, but on he persisted. He had taken to pacing his tent as many nights as he slept, but so far things seemed to be going according to plan. He could only hope some combination of his luck, his men, and the Gods would keep them safe.

His men. The thought was still mind boggling. Only the crippling fear of making some disastrous error kept the fact that he had eighteen thousand men at his command from going to his head, assuredly. Well, that and he was Ned Stark’s son and a man of the North and that sort of foolish self-importance was better left to Southroners. The North had existed for thousands of years before any of them and would go on existing thousands of years after them as well.

Today, Robett Glover rode beside him. Robb remembered what his father had always told him. ‘Know the men who follow you and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.’ That had always felt surreal to Robb — the idea that men might one day die for him. It still felt somehow out of reach of his understanding even though it was about to happen.

When Robb thought about the women whose husbands wouldn’t warm their beds again and children who would never know or remember their fathers because he had called the banners of the North and interrupted the families of thousands of men, his stomach twisted in guilty knots. But this is what bannermen were supposed to do was it not? To support each other in times of need. A lord was good to his bannermen — if he was a good lord — and they would defend him with leal service when called upon.

Still, Robb couldn’t help feeling like he would have preferred a few more years to get used to the idea before he was riding off to war. Gods knew what he wouldn’t give to simply be Robb-the-boy back at home with Mother, Father, and his brothers and sisters. It seemed as if one day he’d been sparring in the yard with practice swords and now a very real and dangerous sword flashed at his side. But that was all over and could never be again. Perhaps he should have appreciated it more at the time.

He tried to take every word of advice his father, Maester Luwin, and Ser Rodrik had ever taught him into account each day and with each action. As a result, every day a different one of his men rode at his side at the head of the column while he soaked up every word of advice each of them had to offer as well. More often than not, he learned about children, wives, siblings, trades, hobbies, and anything else the men cared to level as the topic of discussion for that day. Getting to know them, Robb had to admit, was something he enjoyed.

Robb shielded his eyes to see a man riding North toward them and recognized that it was one of the scouts gone ahead with the Blackfish. “Ser Brynden bade me ride back with word. Lord Frey has, as far as we can tell, a host of about four thousand men at the Crossing. Lord Tywin’s host is several days South still, but Lord Frey hasn’t marched.”

Robb’s mother had ridden up the column to join them when the scout approached and commented, “Late again.” Robb knew what she meant. He had heard this story from Ser Rodrik before. Lord Hoster Tully had called his banners during Robert’s Rebellion but Walder Frey had conveniently arrived with his men after the Battle of the Trident was already over. The man had a way of only supporting winning (or won) causes. Robb realized, in something like shock and horror, that Lord Walder was waiting to see if _Robb_ was a winning or a losing cause before throwing in his lot. And if he turned out to be only a green boy incapable of handling the task set before him, no doubt Lord Walder would then turn tail to the Lannisters just as fast as he could. It irritated Robb once he figured out what Lord Frey intended, but there was nothing to be done about it.

His mother confirmed his thoughts. “Lord Frey has always been more friendly with the Lannisters than my father would have liked.” Robb was loath to point out that with the number of children Walder Frey had sired, what family didn’t have one of them married into it at some juncture or another — though he took his mother’s point. The Late Lord Frey would join the battle only if he was satisfied with how it was progressing. If not, he would sit inside his bloody castles and watch them.

“Do you think he intends to betray us to the Lannisters, my lady?” Lord Glover asked.

Catelyn sighed. “I doubt even Lord Frey knows what Lord Frey intends to do. He has an old man’s caution but a young man’s ambition and has never lacked for cunning.”

Robb did not like the sound of that at all. While he was not counting on Lord Frey ever since his mother had warned him not to trust the man, it still irked him. Robb shook his head, “We have to cross here. The Ruby Ford is leagues away and the river is too high to raft across even if we had the time and timber to do it. We don’t have a choice.”

“Exactly. And Lord Frey knows that just as well as we do.”

Robb restrained a frustrated sigh.

Camp that night was relatively sober while the men prepared for whatever was going to happen with Lord Frey. Robb sat in his mother’s tent cleaning and polishing his sword while Grey Wind lay at his feet and watched the fire contentedly. The hunting was plentiful here and the wolf was probably the only one of them who was particularly pleased with his lot for the day. Robb leaned down to ruffle the wolf’s pelt as Theon lifted the tent flap.

“Have some food.” Robb said, standing and passing a bowl of stew to Theon who had been riding between Ser Brynden and Robb the last several days couriering both news and any messages the Blackfish did not want left to ordinary scouts.

Theon took the bowl gratefully and sat to eat. “It’s not all bad news. Ser Brynden crossed swords with the Lannisters and a good dozen scouts won’t be reporting back to Lord Tywin soon.” He spooned stew into his mouth before adding, “Or ever.” Robb had to stifle a laugh. Theon continued, “Ser Addam Marbrand commands their outriders and he has been pulling south — but he’s burning as he goes. The Blackfish says he knows approximately where we are but swears he’ll not let them know when we split. That, they won’t see coming.”

“We hope.” Robb added.

“Unless Lord Frey tells them.” Catelyn told Theon to have Ser Brynden set archers to shoot down any ravens, but Theon said the Blackfish had already seen to it.

“A few more blackbirds, and we should have enough to bake a pie. I’ll save you their feathers for a hat.”

Robb almost groaned at Theon’s cockiness but couldn’t help but smile ruefully even so. Theon had always had a mouth that could get him into just as much trouble as his sword, and Robb didn’t expect that was likely to change anytime soon.

“What have the Freys been doing while the Lannisters burn their fields and plunder their holdfasts?” Catelyn asked, moving to warm her hands by the fire. Robb noticed, as he had many times, that his mother’s fingers would never be the same again after her fight with the Catspaw and the Valyrian steel dagger. Damn the Lannisters.

“There’s been minor skirmishes between Ser Addam’s men and Lord Walder’s, but most of his strength is still at the Twins.”

“… Well, I suppose at least we can count on him to be predictable. That has Walder Frey’s seal all over it.” Robb was surprised at the bitterness in his mother’s voice as she continued. “Hold back, wait, watch, take no risk unless forced to it.”

Robb tried for optimism. “Well, if he’s fought some with the Lannisters perhaps he will hold to his vows.”

“Or he might not.” It wasn’t like Catelyn to be so openly and stubbornly pessimistic, and it worried Robb to no end, but he waited for her to continue. “Defending his land is an easy enough choice. Actually backing us or attacking the Lannisters is another thing entirely.”

Robb was trying not to be frustrated but finally couldn’t help himself. “We must have the Crossing! Lord Tywin is burning his way toward us even as we speak.”

“Lord Frey would be a fool to try and bar our way. We have five times his number. You can take the Twins if it comes to that, Robb.” Theon’s easy confidence wasn’t as reassuring as it usually was though.

“Not easily and not in time. If you mount a siege, Lord Tywin would come around and attack you from the rear,” Catelyn pointed out.

Robb was feeling overwhelmed. He would have given anything, just then, to be able to leave that tent and simply walk away from all of this — let someone else handle it for a few hours. But he didn’t have that luxury. He would have given even more to be able to talk to his father, even for just a few moments. Finally, Robb took some calming breaths and turned to his mother. “What would my lord father do?”

Catelyn Stark pinched her lips together for a long moment and said, “Find a way across. Whatever it took.”

“Then that’s what we will do,” Robb said decisively.

&&

The next morning, word was no less grim. Dark words came by way of a Blackfish rather than a raven, however. Ser Brynden himself rode back to them this time, and Robb knew with one look at his great uncle’s face that the word he’d brought was indeed dark. Robb waited, Grey Wind tense beside him.

“There’s been a battle under the walls of Riverrun. We had it from a Lannister outrider we took captive. The Kingslayer has destroyed Edmure’s host and sent the lords of the Trident reeling in flight.”

‘May the others take him.’ Robb thought, clenching his jaw.

“And my brother?” fear was evident in Catelyn’s voice when she spoke. It was another thing Robb wasn’t sure he would ever get used to and didn’t want to get used to — his mother being frightened. She was always so strong. Until Bran had fallen, he had never seen his mother scared and rarely sad either. It was hard to bear, especially when Robb could do nothing. He was frightened himself, but that seemed less important somehow.

“Wounded and captive. The survivors are under siege inside Riverrun — surrounded by Jaime’s host. Moreover, Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred.”

‘May the others take him right along with the Kingslayer!’ Robb thought.

“Damn him!” His temper flared like the young man he was for just a moment. “If the old fool does not relent and let me cross, he’ll leave me no choice but to storm his walls. I’ll pull the Twins down around his ears if I have to. We’ll see how he likes that!” Robb’s cheeks were red with anger, his eyes steely for all as they were Tully blue like his mother’s.

But Catelyn, more tempered, chastised him and made his cheeks redder still. “You sound like a sulky boy, Robb. A child sees an obstacle and his first thought is to run around it or knock it down. A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot.”

Robb felt his face burn and could tell the red flush was creeping up his ears and down onto his neck. His response was meek this time. “Tell me what you mean, Mother.”

“Remember what I told you at Moat Cailin. The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never yet failed to exact a toll.”

“What toll is it he wants?” Robb had a feeling it wouldn’t be as simple as gold. Something inside him warned him that Lord Frey’s toll was going to be something he was not going to like.

“That is what we must discover.”

Robb felt himself growing frustrated again but tried to keep his temper in check, “And if I choose not to pay this toll?”

“Then you had best retreat back to Moat Cailin and deploy to meet Lord Tywin in battle… or grow wings. I see no other choices.” And before Robb could so much as respond, his mother had put her heels into her horse and left his side.

Robb clenched his eyes closed for a minute remembering his mother’s words from the night before. ‘Find a way across, whatever it took.’ Right. He needed to calm down and think like the Lord of Winterfell and not like a boy. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

Near midday, the Twins came into view. They were even more formidable than Robb had been picturing. The Green Fork was swift and deep and the famed bridge was a massive arch above it made of smooth, grey stone. Robb judged it wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast. A great tower rose from the center of the bridge’s span. ‘_Well played_,’ Robb thought as he stared at the tower. That tower, combined with a castle at each end of the bridge, assured that anyone approaching either by land or river could not do so without facing a rain of arrows from the tower’s arrow slits and murder holes. The twin castles themselves were ugly — at least compared with Winterfell’s Northron beauty. Squat and unappealing, they sat hulking at either end of the bridge, almost taunting him. Each castle had high curtain walls and a barbican and portcullis on either bank. Meanwhile, Robb could see an archer at every crenel and arrow slit — and there were likely plenty more he couldn’t see. The drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, and the gates closed and barred just as Ser Brynden had warned. ‘_Godsdamn the Freys_.’

Robb could hear the Greatjon blustering and cursing even though he was several men back in the column. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence as if his mere gaze would bring down the castles. “That cannot be assaulted, my lords,” Roose Bolton commented. Robb knew he was right. It might as well have been Moat Cailin all over again, but this time apparently _not_ in their favor.

As if on perfect cue, a plank bridge slid across the moat. A dozen knights rode forward to confront them under a banner of twin towers — dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. The Frey men, Robb thought, were as ugly as their castles. All of them had the look of a family of weasels, though, at the least, Ser Stevron — Walder’s heir — seemed to be a _polite_ weasel. “My lord father has sent me to greet you and inquire who leads this mighty host.”

_‘_A greeting indeed.’ Robb thought, but he had calmed himself down after his mother’s rebuke of earlier and was trying very hard to be more like his father. “I do.” Robb came forward with Grey Wind at the heels of his horse.

Ser Stevron seemed almost amused at the wolf, though slightly less so when his horse had the good sense to be well wary of Grey Wind and began to back and prance nervously. Robb could not resist feeling a moment of satisfaction in that. However, Ser Stevron’s next words were far less amusing. “My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here.”

‘You know very well the purpose. You are sworn to House Tully!’ Robb thought, but kept his mouth shut and his face impassive. For all his silence, however, his Lords made it up in their yelling, cursing, and blustering over each other even as they all tried to say the same thing. It was unequivocally agreed that Robb should not accept the offer. He remembered uncomfortably how his mother had told him Lord Hoster did not trust Lord Frey and neither should he. Indeed, there was something about this situation he very much misliked.

“Go in there alone and you’re his. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon or slit your throat as he likes.” Roose Bolton commented, though Robb, this time, was aware of the danger. Like as not, they’d kill him before he ever reached the bread and salt. ‘Even a nice weasel has teeth,’ Robb thought wryly.

“Let him come out and treat with Robb in plain sight of his men and ours,” Ser Wylis Manderly spoke up.

Robb was surprised as his mother cantered through the column with all the bannermen quietening in surprise at her sudden appearance. “I will go.” Her voice was strong and sure.

Robb’s stomach did uncomfortable flip-flops. “Mother, are you certain?” He misliked the idea of his mother going with these men all alone.

“Never more. Lord Walder is my father’s bannerman. I have known him since I was a girl. He would never offer me any harm.”

Robb wondered if the glib tone belied as much fear on her own account as Robb currently felt for her, but no one offered a better plan, either.

Ser Stevron-the-weasel smiled. “I am certain my lord father would be pleased to treat with you, Lady Catelyn. To vouchsafe for our good intentions, my brother Ser Perwyn will remain here until she is safely returned to you.”

‘Well, that’s something, at least.’ Robb thought. “He shall be our honored guest. I require my lady mother’s return by evenfall, Ser Stevron. It is not my intent to linger here.” ‘Nor my intent to allow you to let my mother languish in a dungeon.’ Robb added silently.

Ser Stevron nodded politely, “As you say, my lord.”

Robb watched his mother cross the bridge as Lord Frey’s envoys closed in around her and prayed to the Old Gods and the New that he’d made the right decision.

* * *

Once, when Catelyn had been a young girl, Petyr Baelish had given her a present. However, when she had opened the box she found inside, much to her dismay, a second box. When she opened the second box, there appeared a third box and so on and so forth. Ultimately, she had had to open five boxes to reveal the present and all the while Petyr had watched her with glee when, each time, she expected to find a present only to be rewarded with yet another box. Catelyn had never been sure whether Petyr had liked her consternation over the boxes or her response to the actual present more. He had sworn, though, that it wasn’t a present she’d forget and that had been true. To be sure, the pretty gold and silver bracelet had been pleasing, but she remembered the riddle of the boxes just as much if not more.

Haggling with Lord Walder Frey for the crossing of the Twins felt a little bit too much like that set of boxes. She never seemed to get to the end of it and there was always something else. Moreover, there was little she could do to improve her situation given that Walder Frey knew he had her over a barrel and that her need to cross was paramount; therefore, he could demand all the more for his asking price. Catelyn suspected Lord Walder Frey’s toll got substantially higher the greater the desire was to cross. Unfortunately, in her current situation, she couldn’t even try playing as if she had other options or that her need was not great or urgent — not with thousands of men sitting on the bank of the Green Fork.

There were times Catelyn had despaired that they would ever reach an agreement. While she had told Robb that Ned would have done whatever it took cross, and that was true, it didn’t mean she could allow any option on the table. However, she had to be very careful how she refused and what she countered with given that Lord Frey was a prickly man and could be so easily offended — not that he gave the same care not to give offense himself. Of course, he never had but it was all the more irksome when they both knew he didn’t even have to give pretense of not being offensive — and didn’t. Catelyn knew precious few bannermen so brash as to say the things about their liege lord that Walder Frey did about Hoster Tully — and to Lord Tully’s own daughter — without batting an eyelash!

Despite it all, though, Catelyn had known once Lord Walder exclaimed “Well, you can’t cross! Not unless I allow it, and why should I? The Tullys and the Starks have never been friends of mine,” and then had leaned back in his chair with a smirk, that the rest was only haggling. He’d had his mummer’s show and now he would actually tell her what price he wanted. That was one thing about the Freys that could always be counted on. At times, Catelyn thought they were little better than sellswords. They always had a price. And an ally who always had a price was a risky one at best. Catelyn would be extremely grateful when this business was done and they were well past the Twins.

“Well. I’ve a good many children, Lady Catelyn. As you saw earlier.”

She had indeed. Lord Frey had seen fit to assemble his entire household to receive her: all twenty living sons (minus Ser Perwyn — who would have made one and twenty), six and thirty grandsons, nine and ten great-grandsons and numerous daughters, granddaughters, and grandbastards. Catelyn now knew what Lord Hoster Tully had always meant when he’d remarked that Walder Frey was the only lord in the Seven Kingdoms who could field an army out of his breeches. She had always known Walder Frey had had a string of wives and children, but she supposed she’d never thought specifically about how many children a string of eight wives and ninety years of life could produce until they were all assembled together in one room. It was slightly startling and disconcerting by turns.

“Yes. All fine sons and daughters.”

“Pah! Save your sweet words, Catelyn Tully. I get more than enough of those from my wife. No, my get are snot-nosed brats every one, just waiting for me to die. Stevron’s been waiting forty years and I’ve not done. Well, I’m not of a mind to die yet.”

“Of course not, my lord. I do hope you live to be a hundred.” Catelyn responded.

“That would boil them sure and certain! But as I said, I’ve no mind to die yet. Especially not now that I’ve got a pretty young wife. A sweet little jonquil, and her honey’s all for me. And surely I’ve mentioned she’ll be giving me a son by this time next year no doubt?”

“You have…” ‘Thrice so far,’ Catelyn thought. Perhaps Theon Greyjoy’s uncouth manner was rubbing off on her more than she would have preferred as she had to marvel that Walder Frey was both still fecund and potent. One would not have been able to guess based on his appearance.

“But that will be next year. Nonetheless, it does serve to plan ahead. It can be difficult to sort out to do with so many children.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you would be interested in having a son or two come North to Winterfell to foster?” The man had made his point clear so it wasn’t exactly a question even though she had posed it as one. Catelyn was unspeakably weary and wished Walder Frey would simply spell out his terms. That would have been too much to hope for.

“Well…” Lord Frey took a moment, pretending to seriously consider the offer — as if he hadn’t conceived of it himself. “That’s very generous. Especially generous to take two off my hands!”

Catelyn forced herself to smile pleasantly. “It would be my honor. I’ll see that they are safely escorted back. My sons Bran and Rickon remain at Winterfell and would be very anxious to have new companions.”

“Speaking of companions. Well, I’ve a boy close of an age with your Robb. Olyvar it is. He’s an anxious sort but loyal. He’s of a mind to be a squire if he had someone to squire for.”

“I suspect any of the knights in our company would be happy to take on Olyvar.”

“Any of them, heh! How about Robb?”

This time it was Catelyn’s turn to feign serious consideration. She could not give Lord Frey everything he wanted with absolutely no resistance or he would refuse on mere principle no doubt. “Like as not, but does Olyvar understand that Robb is not a true knight? His skill is excellent, but Robb is a Northman and keeps the Old Gods.” That was an honest question. If Olyvar Frey hoped for a knight who could raise him to knighthood himself once he deemed Olyvar ready, he would not find that in Robb.

Lord Frey brushed off the comment like brushing off a bothersome fly. “Bah. Titles. He’ll learn his skills the same won’t he? You say your son’s a good sword?”

“Aye. Trained by Ser Rodrik Cassel.”

“As I thought. Yes, he’ll serve well enough. If Olyvar is of a mind to move beyond the role of a squire, he’ll manage eventually.”

“Very well then. I’m sure Robb will be pleased to have a squire.” ‘And may the Gods be good that the lad is actually _able _to squire rather than simply of a ‘mind’ to squire.’ Catelyn thought. She did not particularly want to foist a green boy with no idea what he was doing on her son, but if worse came to worse…

Lord Frey watched Catelyn the way Grey Wind watched dinner, waiting for her to speak.

Catelyn watched him in return and kept her own counsel. ’Come, My Lord. You really must think me the young girl who visited twenty years past.’ Catelyn thought. ‘I know you will not grant us passage this easily. Not when you have everything to gain by bleeding us for all you can.’ But if Lord Frey wanted more, he would have to set the terms himself. Catelyn was not going to offer up options for him given she had already accepted two wards and a squire.

“Your father has never had much use for me, Lady Catelyn. Now, don’t deny it because we both know it’s true. Your family has always pissed on me. Years ago, I went to your father and suggested a match between his son and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind even, sweet young girl only a few years older than Edmure. Of course, if he didn’t warm to her, I had others he might have had: young ones, old ones, virgin ones, widows, whatever he wanted.”

Catelyn could only find it odd that Lord Walder discussed his daughters as such, but said nothing. Lord Walder did not want her to say anything. She could only imagine, though, what concession he was planning to require her to agree to on her father’s behalf to make up for the slight. Lord Walder had an unfailingly long memory when it came to any slight. Gods knew it had been at least decade ago surely that he had tried to arrange this proposal given it had been that long at least since Hoster Tully had been seriously trying to arrange marriage for Edmure. For someone who bristled so much at the Blackfish for having a disobliging habit of wrecking marriage proposals, the fact that Edmure remained unmarried amused Catelyn, though she’d never point it out to him.

“Lord Hoster wouldn’t have it though. Sweet words he sang me so I wouldn’t smell the stink of the piss of course but I’m not a fool. However, that was a good long time ago.”

‘A good long time ago and yet you remember it so vividly.’ Catelyn mentally added, but simply kept a neutral expression as she let Lord Walder wax his tale.

“But we can easily put that behind us. After all, I’ve still got all the kinds of daughters above! And you have a son right here! Positively providential, I call it!”

Ah. There it was. A marriage pact was what he wanted from the first. He’d simply been reeling her in with the smaller requests to begin with. ‘Gods be good!’ Catelyn had not thought to ever be in this position — making marriage arrangements for her children without Ned by her side to keep counsel with. Moreover, Robb was a man grown and leading nearly the entire strength of the North behind him. While it certainly was not unusual for parents to broker marriage pacts for even adult children, that was _usually_ with their consent or at least their knowledge. It felt underhanded to promise Robb to a girl in the spur of the moment without consulting Ned or Robb either one, and preferably both. Perhaps other parents might have done such a thing, but Catelyn could not help but feel uneasy. She and Ned had never handled their children’s lives in such a… careless manner and Catelyn did not like the idea of beginning now.

And through it all she was struggling to keep her face as impassive as she had wanted, Godsdammit.

Lord Walder must have seen through her mask.

“Come now, Lady Catelyn! You’ve no need to look so cowed. I have a pretty, young daughter I think will suit your boy.”

“I did not mean to give offense. I was merely surprised.” She knew her voice was more formal and forced than it usually would be, but at least that might not be recognized.

“And now that you’re no longer surprised, what will it be?”

‘Gods forgive me Ned, Robb.’

“You have someone you say will suit him well?”

“My girl Roslin should please any man with sense. Good enough for your Robb by far. She’s a good girl, a pretty little thing. My youngest with my sweet Bethany. Fifteen she is, of an age with your boy. She enjoys music.”

A good choice if Lord Walder was telling it true. Rosbys were not known for being particularly hearty stock, but Bethany had borne Walder five children — one each year of their marriage — and to Catelyn’s knowledge her death had not been in childbed. Not the worst history, she supposed.

“With a condition. I want to ensure whomever my son marries will be able to give him children. I would have the girl examined by our Maester. We are fortunate enough to have Luwin with us, and it really would set a mother’s mind at ease. After all, Robb is my eldest and Roslin would be the mother of House Stark’s heirs.” ‘Temper potential insult with something he will not be able to resist.’

“It would seem you do not trust me.”

“Not at all. It is simply a mother’s over concern for her son.”

“Hm. I suppose I see no harm in your maester attending Roslin. If he should find anything disagreeable with her, then your boy can have his pick of the rest. But I will have them wedded and bedded before the crossing. Robb can take her on to Riverrun or leave her as he pleases and return for her, but he’ll do either only after putting a babe in her belly.”

Catelyn looked at the man in consternation. “Lord Walder, look outside your gates! Tywin Lannister is burning and plundering his way through the Riverlands. This seems hardly the appropriate time…” But a nagging thought reminded her that her own father had required the same of Ned before he rode off to Robert’s Rebellion. She and Lysa had married together and both been left behind at Riverrun. For a time, they had hoped they might be mothers together, but that had not come to be.

“Oh, but it will be good fun! It won’t take so long to wed and bed them. The war can wait a night or two. Besides, if he hasn’t already, your boy ought to deflower a girl before he goes off to fight.”

Once again, Catelyn could not help but find it perverse for a man to suggest such a thing when the ‘girl’ in question was his own daughter.

“In fact, you’ve got a girl as well. Two even if I’m not mistaken. And I’m not wanting for boys either…”

Now there she drew the line. They were bordering onto madness by now. This would surely be the heaviest toll the Freys had ever exacted for crossing the Twins, and it was more than generous enough. “It would not be advantageous to either of our houses to double marry. I do not have quite as many children to spare as you do, Lord Frey.”

“Well, you do have a spine. I was wondering when you’d say no!” And Walder Frey actually chuckled. “Very well. You can cross.”

Catelyn felt a dizzy sense of relief and managed a weak smile. Now it only remained to see what Robb would say about what she had saddled him with. ‘Find a way to cross. Whatever it took.’ She reminded herself firmly. “Very well.” She agreed.

“I’ll have my men clear out of the Water tower. There are chambers in it enough for a few of your main party. Even a suite well suited to use for a bedding.” And he chuckled again. The odd man.

“And, Lord Walder, you are a bannerman of House Tully are you not?” Catelyn reminded pointedly.

“I take your meaning, Lady Catelyn. Contrary to what you might assume, I did not call my swords to sit here and eat up all my stores at the end of summer. My son Stevron will ride with you and lead the Frey banners less four hundred men to stay and hold the Crossing. That is what you wanted to know?”

“It is. We will do the same — less four hundred men to help augment your garrison. We also appreciate the use of the water tower suites.” Catelyn could not deny that she was looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed again. The one night at Moat Cailin had hardly been enough to satisfy the ache in her bones after months of sleeping on the ground.

“They can marry tomorrow evening. Many women as are here, I can’t imagine putting together a maiden cloak will be difficult for them.”

‘If you’ve not already had them start, I’ll eat my hat.’ Catelyn thought, but only smiled demurely.

* * *

Robb was pacing in his tent while he waited on his lady mother to return. With each hour that passed, he became more anxious. He had said he required her back by sunset and it was sunset by now, and she had not yet returned. And so, he paced back and forth across the small space between the tent wall and his bedroll while Grey Wind watched him with a slightly concerned look. He sensed his master’s unease and did not like it.

“You’re going to wear a mud track into the ground.” Theon finally said, looking up at Robb. He was sitting on Robb’s bedroll watching the boy who had been closer to him than the brothers he had grown up with, really. Watching his anxiety was both amusing and worrisome for Theon. He hated seeing Robb upset, could understand why he was, and was slightly amused all at the same time.

Robb looked up at him with a tenseness in his face that Theon wasn’t used to seeing. “Do you have better ideas? I can’t just sit here. I want to know what is going on. And I’d like to know what is taking so long. She was supposed to be back by now.”

Theon rose to his feet and went to put a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “She will be back. Give it a little time. Try to be patient.” Theon didn’t know that he was all that good at comforting people, but he did his best for Robb. He knew how close the Stark children had always been with both their parents, and could only imagine the worry Robb must be experiencing just now.

Fortunately, when the sun hung low, a giant red circle in the western horizon spreading orangey-red light through the clouds, Catelyn Stark appeared on the drawbridge mounted and leading a column of men — older sons of Lord Frey: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, and his bastard son Ronel Rivers. There was also a long column of pikemen and men shuffling along in blue ringmail and silvery grey cloaks. And Robb’s heart leapt into his cheat, hardly dating to hope that maybe this meant something. Regardless, he was so relieved to see his mother well and unharmed.

Robb swung up onto his horse’s back and cantered out to meet her on the bridge with Grey Wind racing alongside his horse’s heels. Robb’s own destrier had long ago gotten used to the wolf, though he made the Frey men’s mounts uneasy, but they’d get used to him too, just as Robb’s had. He would have given anything to be able to hug her and say how glad he was to see her in that moment, but he couldn’t do that in front of all these men.

Catelyn smiled at him, seemingly knowing his anxiety. “It is done. You can cross.”

Robb felt nearly faint with relief. In the hours that had passed, as long as it was taking, He’d started to prepare himself for the worst, such as having to go all the way down to the Ruby Ford. It would lose time and be much more dangerous, but if Lord Frey had refused, they’d have had no other choice.

“What ... Did he want of us?”

“Let us go somewhere we can talk,” Catelyn said. “Then, I can explain everything.” She swung down off her horse and put it into the capable hands of a young boy and Robb did the same as he matched her motion leading her through the camp until they reached his own tent. He noticed that Ser Brynden had followed them, but he didn’t mind. “Sit. Tell me everything, please.” Robb said, anxiously.

“Lord Frey’s swords are yours less four hundred he will keep to hold The Crossing. I told him we’d leave 400 also to augment his garrison. Be certain you give the commend to someone you can trust — just in case Lord Walder needs some helping keeping faith.” Catelyn stated. That meant his force stood just over 21,000 men.

“As you say, Mother. Perhaps Ser Hellman Tallhart?”

“A fine choice.”

Robb nodded, “I’ll tell him after we have eaten. But.. Tell me. What did he want of us? What is our toll?” His forehead was pulled into a worried pucker. The longer she said nothing, the more worried he became.

“Two of Lord Frey’s grandsons will be fostering at Winterfell. They are around Bran’s age. I’ll need someone to escort them back North. Likewise you’re to take on a grandson, Olyvar, as your personal squire.”

Robb was surprised, “Two fosterlings and a squire? That’s a small enough price —.”

“Wait, Robb,” his mother said gently. “There’s more.” There was something in her face, her tone that Robb suddenly felt unsure of. “There’s a marriage pact.”

“Well, Arya won’t like that one bit. Though Sansa may not mind once we are able to get the both of them away from — ”

“No, Robb. You don’t understand.” His mother said, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. Her face was etched in concern as were her blue eyes. “The betrothal is for you. You’re to wed one of Lord Walder’s daughters. Tomorrow night.”

To his credit, Robb managed not to flinch, though his brain felt as if it were expanding and imploding all at the same time. It was a fortunate thing he was already sitting down else his knees would have probably given out beneath him entirely. There was a strange dizziness, a buzzing in his ears. It wasn’t the getting married part. All children of Lords, for the most part, made politically advantageous marriages, and Robb only hoped his own would one day become as loving as his parents’ was.

No, what had taken him by absolute shock was that he would marry this girl tomorrow. The five and ten year old in him wondered what he would do if she was ugly, but he bit that worry down almost instantly. Such a thing did not matter in a marriage. If she was unattractive, perhaps he could find something else to like in her. Doubtless, she was no more ready or calm about this marriage than he was himself. He would simply be the best husband he was able to be and hoped this girl, whomever she was, would strive to be the best wife she could be. After all, one day, when his parents were gone — little as he liked to think about that just now given that it had too nearly come to pass — she would be the new Lady of Winterfell, and Robb could not imagine anyone else running Winterfell with the capability of his lady mother, but still wanted it anyway. All of those were things to sort out later.

“I consent, ” Robb said simply. The look of pride on his mother’s face just then made Robb flush and rub the back of his neck. And then, when she recalled that she was alone in the tent with he and the Blackfish, Robb found himself swept into a hug and pressed close against his mother. He hugged her back for just a brief moment before he pulled back.

“I am proud of you Robb. You have become a man your lord father and I are… are very proud of indeed.”

Robb felt flustered and murmured, “Thank you,” before quickly moving to the next topic. “Tomorrow, though? I had hoped not to linger here. We must march.”

“I told Lord Frey that, but he insisted. We will have to settle for marching the day after tomorrow.”

Ser Brynden spoke up for the first time then, “Our plans can be amended; it is not too long a delay.” He reassured.

“Such a thing is not so uncommon,” his mother added. “Both your aunt Lysa and I were married together in the sept at Riverrun before your father and Jon Arryn left to go fight in Robert’s rebellion. Speaking of that. Lord Walder has offered you the decision about whether you would like to take your bride on with you to Riverrun or leave her here.”

Robb nodded, almost numbly. He was too surprised and overwhelmed still to even consider that option for at least a few hours.

“I will talk to Maester Luwin directly. I would like him to see to the girl this evening and see that she is healthy and suitable.”

Robb nodded, still feeling almost as if this was all happening to someone else. He would get used to the idea. Quickly. He would have to.

His mother continued, “There is a set of guest suites in the Water tower Lord Walder mentioned. He will have his men move out of it tonight as he has graciously offered us the use of it.”

Robb smiled a bit for true then. The idea of a bed for the first time in many days was absolutely appealing. “I think it would be difficult to move camp so late, and I must consider who will come with us. On the morrow we can re-arrange things.” Robb decided. It was already darkening by now.

The smell of food coking was wending its way through the camp, reminding Robb how hungry he was after a day of riding. He had barely eaten anything previously due to his anxiety and now was ravenous. “Do you know anything about the new squire? His training?”

His mother shook her head, “Little. His name is Olyvar and he is of a close age with you. Lord Walder reports him to be loyal though slightly anxious.”

It wasn’t the worst thing, Robb thought. “Did he come back with you?”

“Yes. Somewhere.” The camp was overrun with near 4000 new men, so exactly where, she could not have said.

Robb nodded, “I’ll.. Seek him out after I find some food.”

Ser Brynden spoke then, “Would you like me to get you some food, Cat?”

“Thank you, Nuncle. I would appreciate that. I will be quite busy this evening, I think. I would like to sew the wife cloak myself as the Frey women will see to the maiden cloak.”

Robb smiled, “Thank you, mother.”

“Also, In case you wished to know, your betrothed’s name is Roslin,” his mother said.

Robb flushed, realizing he probably should have asked that. He simply nodded. “Thank you, Mother, I do not know what we would have done without you.” He said, smiling at her for a moment before he left the tent and came face to face — literally— with Theon.

Robb’s look of surprise melted into one of amusement. “You were eavesdropping.” He accused, though with little concern. Theon Greyjoy was routinely doing things he had not ought be doing, but they were never particularly serious. Really, Robb was a little grateful he would not have to explain it all to Theon anyway. “You are incorrigible, you know that?” Robb said, giving Theon a playful shove.

Theon just smirked and gave Robb a playful push back. “Hopefully she’s pretty so you can enjoy your marriage bed. Wish you’d given in and gone to the brothel in Winter Town now?”

“Hardly,” Robb muttered. While Robb suspected his father would have looked the other way, Robb felt it was also not something his father would exactly approve of or done himself. True, he had had a single indiscretion, but Robb did not prefer to have any. His face was warm now.

Theon continued with a grin, “Well, since you didn’t, I’ll help you out. Number one, be sure she’s nice and wet before you…”

“Seven hells, Theon! Fuck off — or come get something to eat with me,” Robb said. At this point, his face was near Lannister red and felt as if it were on fire.

“Done. I believe I could eat an entire horse.”

“I hope our state of provisions won’t come to that. Let’s go.” He was anxious to join others before Theon could continue talking about his impending loss of having never been with a woman before. Gods.

* * *

Catelyn was still trying to come to terms with the concept that, on the morrow, her son would be a married man. Her mind kept playing over memories of his childhood and hoping she and Ned had taught him enough to be a good husband to Roslin.

She could certainly admit to being anxious as to how all of this would turn out and could only hope she had made the right decisions. She was incredibly proud of Robb and how he had handled everything with grace and acceptance. Her eldest was committed to this cause, however, and would do what he needed to do — just as all of them would.

Catelyn had no sooner broken her fast than Maester Luwin came to find her with word that he had been to the castles and seen Roslin.

“And?” Catelyn asked, heart in throat as she bade Maester Luwin sit.

“The girl is well and good and should be able to bear children if her mother is an indication. She is a maiden.”

Catelyn let out a sigh of relief.

“She is not frail and appears very healthy with a nice flush to her cheeks.Though she is small with narrow hips, which may make her births difficult, she is no worse than others I have seen.”

“And.. Is she.. Will she.. Be good to Robb?” Catelyn asked, desperately hoping the answer would be positive.

“I believe so.” Maester Luwin said thoughtfully. “She was very nervous, so I could not get a good sense of her, but when she gets to know Robb, she will, perhaps, be a bit less shy of us and warm up a good deal.”

It was better than Catelyn could have hoped really. She had not known what she might potentially be getting into when she agreed to a bride for Robb without having seen or spoken to her.

“You have my thanks,” she said, placing a gentle touch on the Maester’s arm with a smile.

“You are welcome, my lady. If you have no further need of me, I will retire.”

“I will see you in the morning, then.” Catelyn confirmed, watching him go with a sense of renewed hope.

Soon after, Catelyn sat in the glow of a lamp working with a cloak for Roslin. Catelyn had no small pearls or jewels to decorate the cloak with, but she was determined to use her best embroidery to make it beautiful for Roslin. This girl, Robb’s own age, was surely nervous. Catelyn could remember how she had felt as a new bride in an unplanned marriage — to Ned instead of Brandon — and knowing she would be going to the wild North when the rebellion was over. She wanted something special for Roslin, therefore. That said, she would need to hurry to be done with the cloak by the next night. It was fortunate that Catelyn had spent years at her embroidery and could work quickly when required. Catelyn only put the cloak aside well into the wee hours of the morning when her eyes were too tired to focus on it. She slept only a few hours and broke her fast quickly before returning to her work.

Within her own possessions she had a light grey fur lined cloak of good condition that she had decided to use for the base. The majority of her clothes had become travel worn, but in the need to remain anonymous through most of the trip, this cloak, slightly fancier than her others, had seen less wear. The deep ivory of another dress’s edge trimmings were cut and recycled to create a white border round the bottom and up the front edges of the cloak and to create a white direwolf at the back with the details of the wolf outlined in black silk thread. With more time, she’d likely have done the entire wolf in embroidery, but this served well and was pretty even so. Grey hair ribbons fastened the cloak at the neck. Ideally, she might have made the cloak white with grey and black, but she had to make do with what she had. Along the back she stitched trees from the Godswood beneath the Stark wolf including the Heart Tree in the center. She pulled out black thread from a regular cloak and red threads from a Tully cloak to reuse to create the details of the tree and its red leaves. She also created a few delicate white swirls and tiny snowflakes along the front of the cloak and falling over the trees. It was bittersweet in a way. Catelyn knew Robb would have preferred to marry before the Old Gods in a Godswood, but The Twins was too new a keep to have a godswood or heart tree being only about six hundred years old compared with some castles thousands of years old when the children had inhabited Westeros before The Pact and had carved the faces. So, it would be a sept wedding, though perhaps that would be a comfort to Roslin at least.

Finally, she was pleased with her work and declared it finished.

* * *

“Pst! Robb!”

Grey Wind stood immediately, alerted to a presence just inside Robb’s tent, but recognized Theon and padded over to receive a pat while Robb rolled over on his pallet and then sat up, rubbing his eyes. He could tell it was still the pitch black of night.

Theon was across from his bed. “Come with me.” He had a grin on his face that probably should have made Robb suspicious, but Robb was still too groggy to notice it.

Robb groaned in response to Theon’s bidding. He was still sleepy after a day of hard riding in the morning and then anxiety in the afternoon. “What time even is it?”

“Hour of the bat.”

Robb rubbed his eyes once more. He’d barely been asleep two hours then. Not even the middle of the night. Gods. “Where are we going?” He asked, getting up and beginning to dress. “Guessing I don’t need mail?”

“No. And you’ll see soon enough.”

“Theon, remind me to kill you someday,” Robb grumbled, but was in a slightly better mood after he moved around pulling on breeches, socks, jerkin, boots, and the like. Robb was not usually difficult to awaken, but only two hours of sleep left him still exhausted.

“What would be the fun in that?” Theon responded, still grinning.

“You’d never wake me up in the middle of the night to go do the Seven only knows what.” Robb pointed out, though he was grinning himself by now.

“Let’s go,” Theon said, noting that Robb was dressed.

Robb followed Theon through the mostly sleeping camp. Earlier there had been music and much merriment as everyone knew the problem of the bridge crossing had been tackled. Now, the camp was quiet. However, more on the periphery of the camp, well enough away not to wake the others, some tents were still lively with light, voices, and music.

As they walked, Robb continued to wake up and become more aware and alert, and his curiosity was aroused at what was going on. He’d never noticed anything like this in the camp before. Then again, after a full day of riding, strategizing, making decisions, getting to know men, and the various tasks of Robb-the-Lord, he was usually extremely sleepy and fell into his bedroll the second he was able to do so.

When Theon entered one of the larger tents pulling Robb with him, Robb looked around in something between consternation, horror, and curiosity. The tent was bright with lanterns and comfortably filled with people. A few scantily dressed women moved about the tent with drinks. Patrek Mallister, who Robb knew liked ‘drinking, women, and hawking’ as Patrek always put it, had _two_ women in his lap, one on each knee, and was saying something that was making them giggle. He caught sight of Robin Flint leading a girl out of the tent. Meanwhile, Greatjon Umber had a girl straddled across his legs with her skirt slipped as high as her thighs and giggling merrily. His son, Smalljon Umber, — just as large as his father — was across the tent with a girl whose shift was most of the way unlaced leaving hints of her breasts spilling out. Robb’s blue eyes stayed wide as he looked at the scene before him in disbelief.

“Theon! This is no better than a brothel!”

Theon grinned hugely, “That’s exactly what it is. Every army as its camp followers. It’s your last night as a single man, and if you’ll act the part of a man, then you deserve the pleasures of a man.” Theon pointed out, clapping him on the back.

Robb’s cheeks were red and somehow he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the breasts of the girl whose shift was undone much as he knew he ought to. “I will!” He protested. “Tomorrow! In my marriage bed!”

He thought maybe he would be able to sneak away unseen but did not have such luck. He was seen by Greatjon who called out to greet him as did Patrek Mallister. He could tell at a glance that both of them were heavily in their cups. They were ruddy faced with disheveled hair and big grins, the both of them. 

“Tomorrow, in your marriage bed, you’ll be grateful if you try a few things tonight. These girls know what they’re doing ah… if you take my meaning.” Robb took his meaning all right. He opened his mouth to respond back that he’d ‘figure it out’ but never managed to get it out before Theon was steering him toward a chair that had been vacated by Robin when he took his lady off. Robb’s accursed Tully complexion was, of course, making an apt appearance. And, to his absolute horror, since there were breasts and knees and thighs near everywhere he looked, there was no ‘safe’ place to gaze and, as a result, he was starting to feel himself getting hard. And that was another thing he had little ability to conceal and was why he let Theon shove him down into the chair in hopes he would not be noticed. Of course, no matter how he shifted around, his body betrayed him. “Looks like at least part of you likes the idea.” Theon chimed. “Besides, it’s not as if this is nearly as bad as Making the Eight. If I were you…”

“Gods save me.” Robb muttered under his breath because, before he knew it, Smalljon was helping out and Robb couldn’t even protest before he had a giggling, grinning girl straddling his lap and pressing a cup of ale into his hands. Embarrassed, Robb drained it. He had no intention of winding up in his cups and participating in whatever debauchery Theon had in mind for him, but he had to do something to take the edge off his nerves. This was just reminding him that, in a day, he would have to do this for real, and even though he’d said he’d figure it out, he really didn’t know all that much other than the basics of what went where.

Before long, one of the girls went by and refilled Robb’s cup of ale. He was glad it was ale. He was going to need something stronger than wine to get himself through this… whatever it was… He couldn’t ignore the girl on his lap who had pretty red-gold hair that she was wearing half up. Her shoulders were bare and covered with freckles and freckled breasts bulged above her partially opened shift.“Hello, Lord Stark.”

“Robb.” And he was mortified that his voice sounded squeaky and he couldn’t quite manage to get his gaze off her teats.

“Do you like what you see, Milord?”

He tossed back another glass of ale and somehow found his mouth speaking without him having given permission for it to do so: “Ah.. Yes..” He managed. Gods why couldn’t his get his eyes off them and look at her face?

“You can touch them you know, Milord.”

“I… I don’t know about…” but the girl took both his hands and pressed them to her hips and Robb found himself, guided under her touch, rubbing his hands up her sides until he was cupping a very fine pair of teats, one in each hand. Of course, it wasn’t like he had anything to compare to, but they certainly _seemed_ fine. “Uh… what’s your name?” Robb asked, finally managing to look at her eyes. They were a blueish grey color.

“Alrya, Milord.”

“Ah, just.. Robb please.” He tried to insist. Somehow, he had to find a way to separate out the parts of himself to be able to cope with what was even going on here. He had the feeling there was no way he could simply walk away, and, to his further horror, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d want to even if he _could_ — without Theon dragging him back. Damn him. Theon was across the tent already with a girl in his lap and completely disinterested in Robb’s plight. “Your name is pretty, but I… shouldn’t… I’m getting married tomorrow.” He muttered. It was no use. His eyes were back on her teats and she put her hands over his and started showing him how to rub them. Robb felt her nipples harden under the center of his palms and groaned audibly as he could tell his breeches were starting to get incredibly uncomfortable.

“Of course you should. Your new wife will thank you for knowing a little.” Alrya teased him.

“I..” How was he even supposed to escape this situation? He was pressed back in a chair with a mostly hard cock and a girl’s teats in his hands. Then, to his even further horror, Theon was pulling his girl along by the hand until he could come over to a seat vacated near Robb.

“Having fun?”

Alrya spoke first. “Oh yes, he is.” Robb looked down and somehow couldn’t seem to stop her as she undid his laces. At the very least, he was still wearing smallclothes and he was no longer in agony with the tightness. He didn’t think he’d ever actually been this hard in his entire life. Then again, he’d never had a girl in his lap either.

“Now, there are important things you need to know,” Theon said, grinning devilishly.

Smalljon must have heard and hopped into the conversation with a laugh. “You telling me he’s never been with a girl?”

Robb tried not to answer, but his red face did the job for him. The man laughed heartily. “Well, be sure you get her nice’n wet down there. She’ll still be a maid, and it’ll feel better for her if she’s wet.

Somehow, Robb had a feeling he knew what they meant by ‘down there.’

“Oh and be sure you…” Theon made an obscene hand gesture “You’ll last longer and not embarrass yourself if you do.”

Robb’s face was burning. “Gods, Theon!” he protested about the gesture. “Where exactly am I supposed to do that even if I _was_ going to. Twenty thousand men know I’m … having a bedding tomorrow already!”

“Exactly, so you might as well stop worrying and just get to it.” He made the hand gesture again and Robb swore at him again.

Robb knew, he just knew, he was going to regret asking this but finally, his curiosity got the better of him, “And exactly how do I… get her… wet. As you say?”

Greatjon laughed his booming laugh. “You’ve got a tongue don’t you? Down there. Between the legs. They like that.”

“You’re welcome to practice on me?” Alrya said sweetly, but Robb shook his head fast. No way. This was all more than he was comfortable with, but Robb knew Theon and knew that once Theon get an idea into his head, you had no choice but to just go along for the most part.

“But not just the tongue!” Smalljon added, “You want a nice combination of sucking and licking. All you gotta do is act like you’re motioning her to come hither. That motion, with your tongue.”

“I think I need more ale.” Robb said, having drained his second cup. And more was in his hand before he’d barely finished the words, and he took a long drink of it, trying to calm himself down. Clearly running away was quite impossible.

“Oh! And be sure to rub your cock against her slit when it’s nice and wet before you go in there. She’ll like that.” Theon added.

“Mm hm.. Like.. Well this is a little backward I guess, milord, but.” And before he could stop her, Alrya moved forward and was doing something that sent his mind into absolute bliss. She was shifting above him in a way that felt both entirely amazing and entirely inappropriate. Thank the Gods they both had their small clothes on. Still. She was moving her hips over him as she slid the area Robb was pretty sure they were all talking about along the smallclothes that covered his hardened cock — and now it was no half hard, either.

“Milord, how old are you?”

“Fifteen.” Robb managed forcing his voice not to come out as a squeak and screwed his eyes shut letting out a gasp.

“Mm.. Very impressive for.. A man recently grown.” Alrya purred.

“What do you mean?” Robb knew he was probably stepping into something like the quicksand in the swamps but couldn’t help it.

“Right here. This lovely cock,” she said, gyrating on it again and Robb was mortified that a little moan slipped between his lips.

Greatjon was laughing merrily. They all were. “It’s going to be all nice and warm in there, but she’s a maid so plenty tight. Likely will be some blood — that’s normal. Shows you made sure to actually take her maidenhead — though some girls lose them by horseback riding, so it’s possible not as well.”

“Oh, and since it’ll be nice and tight,you’ll wanna stick in some fingers in first. To stretch things out.” Theon added. By this point, Robb knew his face had never been so burning hot in his life and probably never would be again.

“You might feel her break and then you wanna hold still until she tells you you can move.” Patrek Mallister added. “That part hurts a bit for them.”

“I don’t.. Want to hurt her.” Robb protested, worried.

“It’s only a little. Especially if she’s nice and wet and you stretched with your fingers.” Theon reassured. “Won’t be bad at all then.”

Robb nodded, trying to process the information while he drank deep from his fourth cup of ale.

“Oh it’ll be plenty tight and nice and warm. That’s the best part. It’s warm and wet.” Theon said, grinning. If Robb could have blushed more, he would’ve.” Especially because Alrya was still uncomfortably close to gyrating her hips right on top of his small-clothes covered cock. Not that the smallclothes did much. He could feel her heat even though both layers. He was starting to get the idea of what they meant by ‘wet’ though at least. There was that.

And then, Greatjon, who actually had a nice singing voice, launched into a bawdy, loud version of The Bear and the Maiden Fair and Theon pressed Robb’s fifth (wait sixth?) cup of ale on him.

_A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_

_All black and brown, and covered with hair._

_The bear! The bear!_

_Oh come they said, oh come to the fair!_

_The fair? Said he, but I’m a bear!_

_All black and brown and covered with hair!_

_And down the road from here to there_

_From here to there!_

_Three boys, a goat, and a dancing bear!_

_They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!_

_The fair! The fair!_

The ale was the only thing that seemed to control Robb’s nerves and embarrassment of the situation. Plus, it was making his head swim warmly, which was better than being so embarrassed he could barely stand it — admittedly, he was still plenty embarrassed and was going to throttle Theon for this the first second he got a chance.

Now more men were taking up the song and gathering around him.

_Oh sweet she was, and pure and fair!_

_The maid with honey in her hair!_

_Her hair! Her hair!_

_The maid with honey in her hair!_

_The bear smelled the scent on the summer air!_

_The bear! The bear!_

_All black and brown and covered with hair!_

_He smelled the scent on the summer air!_

_He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!_

_Honey on the summer air!_

Robb groaned as he drank the ale and Alrya had his hands back on her breasts, encouraging him and showing him how to use his thumbs to stroke the dusky nipples that topped each of the mounds. (How was her shift completely unlaced?) When he did something she liked, she rewarded him with little gasping sounds. He somehow wondered with what little presence of mind he still had whether Roslin would make those sounds and hoped that she would.

_Oh, I’m a maid, and I’m pure and fair!_

_I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!_

_A bear! A bear!_

_I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!_

_The bear, the bear!_

_Lifted her high into the air!_

_The bear! The bear!_

_I called for a knight, but you’re a bear!_

_A bear! A bear!_

_All black and brown and covered with hair._

_She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_

_but he licked the honey from her hair._

_Her hair! Her hair!_

_He licked the honey from her hair!_

On the last verse, every single person in the tent joined in. Even Robb with glowing red cheeks finally gave in and joined them as well.

_“Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!_

_My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!_

_And off they went, from here to there,_

_The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair._

&&

By the time Robb managed to escape the clutches of his men, it was well into the night and he was definitely more in his cups than he had ever intended to get. Fortunately, his virtue remained, well, somewhat in tact. His dignity had not — that was gone the moment his body sold him out for a raging hard cock that still ached. Nonetheless, Robb insisted on doing no more than touching Alrya and not getting anymore undressed than he had — and getting more information about the process of bedding a girl than he could have hoped to get and plenty more than he wanted to get. But at least, Theon pointed out as he guided a stumbling, slightly intoxicated Robb back to his tent, “You’ll know something. Just don’t forget.” He made the obscene gesture again, and Robb’s face went red all over again as Theon brought him to his tent and sat him down on his bedroll given Robb’s head was spinning dizzily.

“Tomorrow, when I’m sober enough to actually hit and not miss you, you’ll pay for this.” Robb threatened, but they both knew well enough to know he wasn’t truthfully upset. Theon was as good as a brother, and Robb knew how to take a good deal of teasing from his brothers. He also knew how to dish it right back out in kind.

Finally, with Theon gone, Robb turned over in his bed roll and prayed for his excited, aroused body to give him some relief.

As usual for the evening, his body betrayed him yet again. _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’ve enjoyed, especially the little comic relief compliments of Theon. Though, now I’ll have to find something to appease Robb because I’ve so thoroughly embarrassed him, poor lad. 
> 
> Coming Next: 
> 
> Robb is thoroughly wedded and bedded.


	10. Moon Four (Full) -- The Grey Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a Grey Wedding instead of a Red One, Roslin and Robb wed, sealing the pact to allow Robb to cross the Twins and binding their lives together as one. 
> 
> Or: Robb gets thoroughly wedded and subsequently bedded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Well, we’re back for part two. This got impossibly long again, but I refused to split it (a second time) so you’ll just get a super long chapter and I’ll hope you guys don’t mind! 
> 
> \- You’ll have to excuse my messy “flower” language. There are so many sites that talk about flower meanings that I just did my best and tried to look up what flowers would have existed by medieval ‘ish’ time periods. I’ve tried to choose flowers that grow wild in Europe for as much realism as possible. I’ve loosely amended flower names to fit within context of Westeros where necessary as well. You can look up “Wild *Insert flower name here*” to see images of the flowers if you want to know what they look like. 
> 
> \- If you’d like to see pictures, the suite Robb and Roslin stay in is based on the Peacock suite in the tower of Warwick castle. Meanwhile the Great Hall is based on the one in Tulira Castle in Ireland.
> 
> \- I used a name for Roslin's horse that I encountered in a work from the amazing author LadySansaClegane and you should check out her work if you enjoy SanSan! 
> 
> \- Blackfish mentions a slight bit of romance of his own in this chapter. Would you guys want to see an outtake of that? Or have me find some way to include it as a memory here? Or not be interested in it at all? Lemme know. 
> 
> \- Playlist is updated, and I think you’ll love the new additions! Songs specific to this chapter would be: Renegades, Best Day of My Life, A Thousand Years, Marry You, Today I Met The Boy I’m Gonna Marry, I Choose You, I Was Made For Loving You, Brass Bed.
> 
> \- As always, I so desperately appreciate everyone who reads and reviews my work. When I log in to see a comment or a bookmark, my heart just fills with happiness and pride that someone somewhere cares enough about my writing to want to spend their time reading it! I want to give an extra special shout out to Vlad who took the time to offer some -amazing- ideas for an independent North on the plot document! It was super helpful! And also a hope that you enjoy this chapter especially with your soft spot for Robb and Roslin! 
> 
> \- More Thank yous for reviews and plot help from last chapter to: SkySamuelle, Joan_Of_Arc, Highflyer, KatMorgan, Blatantlyinlovewithlove, and jjj222. And I haven’t failed to notice that the rate of bookmarks is increasing exponentially which means tons — someone wants to keep hold of my work! Thank you to Calenadrium, Tempetapapillon, astrospace, dominiquescamander, Camsonius, Yijldu, Moonlight1864, and Deathsflowergirl, You guys are awesome!

Moon Four (Full)

The Grey Wedding

* * *

How had he managed to drink so much without realizing it? Had it been six cups or seven?

It was the first thought Robb had upon waking. He felt dizzy with an aching head and was thirsty despite a rolling stomach. At some point in the night, his body had calmed down enough for him to sleep, but now even though he desperately needed a piss, the morning had brought a renewed arousal that threatened to make that difficult.

Clearly there was a reason the Stark children had only been allowed one glass of light wine on special occasions. Robb felt almost guilty now for having teased Jon so badly the morning after the King’s arrival feast at which Jon had gotten completely, soddenly drunk.

When Robb tried sitting up, pain lanced through his temples and the dizziness caused him to wind up back on his pallet while Grey Wind looked at him with worried eyes.

“Never drink,” Robb told the direwolf with a groan.

Finally, Robb forced himself to his feet and went across the tent to pour some water to splash on his face. It helped a little.

“Eggs help. Here, eat.”

Robb nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to see Brynden Tully at the entrance of his tent with a plate of eggs and fresh bread spread with honey. Robb could tell from the look on the Blackfish’s face that somehow he seemed to know exactly what Robb had been up to the previous evening. Robb took the plate and motioned for Brynden to sit, which he did. Brynden poured a flagon of water, which he also pressed on Robb. “Drink that. All of it.” He instructed, and Robb drank.

“How did you know?” He asked, taking a ginger bite of the eggs to see if his stomach was going to reject them or not. At this point, Robb would not have expected he had any dignity left with which to be embarrassed, but he apparently did.

Brynden chuckled lightly, though the mirth was not unkind and his blue eyes danced. “I have not seen six and fifty years and as many battles not to know what sort of things go on in an army camp. I suspected with you getting married tonight. Well.”

“I… didn’t…” Robb was starting to believe that the color of his face might as well stay permanently red.

“No, I suspected not. Though, from the looks of you, they did get you damn good and drunk.”

“Aye.” He managed. He took another bite of eggs and one of the bread and honey. It did seem to be helping a little. “My mother?”

“Has no idea.”

“Thank the Gods.”

“You’ll feel back to normal again by mid-morning. Keep drinking water. No wine — that only makes it worse in the end.” That was a relief as well. He needed to feel better if he was to function at all today. Robb also had little inclination to drink anything other than water or tea for a good long while given his current litany of physical complaints. Not to mention, he felt like he ought to be absolving himself in a Godswood or something after the previous night’s depravity. And, yet, Robb was embarrassed to admit it had felt good. Very good. It probably should not have, but it had.

It was in that moment that it came rushing back to him how much he wished his father was here. Robb could have talked to him about it and Eddard would have understood. He would have understood Robb’s conflicted feelings about the marriage and it suddenness and probably even about everything that had occurred the previous night. Robb had always been able to talk openly with his father and found himself missing it more than ever today. He had never envisioned a situation in which he would be getting married and one of his parents would not be present, wouldn’t even know likely. He hoped his father was okay and would be okay until they could reach King’s Landing.

He glanced up at his great uncle and wondered if he might try talking with him instead. It was the closest thing to his father that he would be able to get. He pondered it for a moment before hesitantly asking, “Did you ever get into situations like this? At my age?”

Brynden’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. “Worse,” he admitted. “Much, much worse.” Perhaps, someday, he would tell his great nephew about the nighttime events of the day he had been knighted. That had involved prodigious amounts of alcohol and discovery in an unfortunately compromising situation with the only salvation being that what occurred amongst brothers in arms usually stayed there. It seemed, though, that the mere knowledge he was not alone was enough to relieve Robb.

Brynden stood and gave Robb’s shoulder a re-affirming squeeze. “You’ve done well and you’ll continue to do well. I’m proud to call you my nephew. I think your bride is likely as nervous as you are, but you’ll be able to figure everything out together if you are patient. Not that I am in a position to give anyone advice about marriage. And, on that note, we have business to attend to before this evening.”

Robb smiled slightly at the compliment and realized Blackfish was right. It was well after first light by now and the commanders needed to convene and sort out how to best distribute the Frey men amongst the contingent as well as sort out the specifics of the plan for after they left the Twins. Those things must be sorted as soon as possible. He nodded, “I’ll be along directly.”

He had barely finished taking the long overdue and desperately needed piss and breathing a sigh of relief and began to pull out clothes for the day when Olyvar Frey quietly, almost hesitantly, asked if he might come in. “Of course.” Olyvar was absolutely an anxious sort, but in a way that suggested he wanted to do everything correctly. Robb had had a few minutes to talk with him the previous evening at supper and decided that he seemed to be an all right lad. But, with so many men surrounding him and needing his attention, they had not had a chance to talk as thoroughly as Robb might have liked.

He really wanted to get to know his new squire more. If they had been marching that day, likely he would have had Olyvar take a place beside him. Instead, they were staying another day so that Robb and Roslin Frey could wed. The thought still boggled his mind. He would have appreciated more than 24 hours to wrap his mind around the idea, but this was how it was and he would rise to it the way he knew his father would have done.

“I would have brought you food to break your fast but Ser Brynden said he had seen to it.”

“He did.” Robb had to admit it had been nice to break his fast with his Uncle as he also got to know the Blackfish better.

Olyvar nodded. “I’ve seen to your armor and your sword including a proper polish. You may not want them for today, but when we march… I have clean clothes for you for the day and someone is seeing to something nicer for tonight. I’ll make sure a bath is drawn for you after you have met with the other lords. I visited your horse and made sure he had a nice bran mash today. I figure everyone is celebrating, maybe he should too. Does he have a name?” Olyvar said. Then, he continued “Have you any messages you would like me to see to or anything else I’ve left out?”

Robb sat there and looked at Olyvar in stunned silence. The idea that suddenly he had someone to see to all of these tasks for him, tasks he’d always seen to (been expected to see to!) on his own was quite new. The response was better and more than he could have expected. He had not given Olyvar any instructions of tasks. In fact, he had just told him to settle in. And he had done all of this. The boy did know about squiring it seemed.

“No.. You’ve done well. Thank you. His name is Night Raider, sometimes just gets called Raider.” Robb said.

“It’s a good name. Do you do want your armor? I can help you with it, but I suspect you won’t without us marching?”

Robb shook his head, “Not today, but tomorrow I would appreciate that a good deal. Go break your own fast if you have not already done so. You’ve seen to everything I need.” Robb said, his appreciation clear in his voice.

&&

After Olyvar left, Robb dressed and made his way to the tent where he had been holding his war council with the other lords and commanders of import. His face turned red once more when the Greatjon sat beside him at the table. While Greatjon was all business now, there was a slightly amused twist to his lips all the same. It was only by sitting next to Roose Bolton on his other side that Robb managed to calm his blush and focus on the meeting before him.

“Good morning.” Robb said and the usual pleasantries and good mornings went round the table before he turned to business. Robb was doing his best to manage the duties of leading so many men and show confidence even if he did not always feel it. “Since Lord Frey has given us permission to cross and turned his banners to us, we will march on the morrow. It is best not to delay here any longer than we must.”

The sooner they could finish things in the Riverlands, the sooner they could go for his father and sisters. He just wanted them safe and returned to him. But he had no choice but to be patient and go about this in the proper way. “And of course, I’m glad you are able to join us Ser Stevron.” He said, giving a nod to the new lord who now had a place amongst them as he was in charge of the four thousand man contingent House Frey had brought to their army.

“It is my honor to be here.” Ser Stevron said. House Frey now seemed completely devoted to their cause and the men were polite, which made Robb thankful.

Robb inclined his head in response before turning back to the matters at hand. “When we march tomorrow, our forces will split. The foot will go with Lord Roose on the Kingsroad. Meanwhile, the horse will go with me. Ser Brynden will ride ahead with his scouts to ensure our split is unnoticed by the Lannisters.

“I will ensure they have no idea,” Brynden vowed. He was quite certain that was something he could manage.

“You have my thanks,” Robb responded. “Tell us what your scouts know currently.”

“At the moment, the Lannister forces are regrouping from their victory at Riverrun.” Brynden’s tone was bitter about that. He intended to relieve the siege on his family’s keep and lands as soon as possible. “Roose, your men are likely to encounter them at the Green Fork still — somewhere between here and the Inn at the Crossroads. I hope you will be able to take them unawares.”

Robb nodded, “I think that strategy makes sense. Lord Roose, the overall command will be yours. You’ll have roughly 17,000 foot — 16,500 infantry and 600 heavy cavalry as far as I can work the numbers. The banners with you, beyond your own men, will be Wylis Manderly, Lord Cerwyn, Harrion Karstark, and Lord Hornwood.”

Roose nodded his approval. “That sounds sufficient.”

“Many of the Riverlands forces are completely scattered after the Kingslayer destroyed their hosts. We will need to bring everyone together into a cohesive unit again. The Lannister forces not holding siege on Riverrun are at the Ruby Ford. Tywin likely believes he will be intercepting us there. We, of course, have other plans. I am thinking we could take him by surprise.”

Roose Bolton nodded, “What do you propose specifically?”

“If we are successful at hiding our split, the Lannisters may hope to lure me into battle. They would like to use the fact that I am a ‘green boy’ against us, and I will not give them that opportunity. I will go to relieve Riverrun. Likely, they hope we will overcommit, but we shall not. I suspect Lord Tywin himself will have the command at Ruby Ford as the Kingslayer remains at the Riverrun siege. By not over-committing we will, perhaps, be able to even things out a bit and get a victory over the Lannisters while also relieving the siege at the same time. Lord Roose, should you encounter difficulties, you could draw back to the mouth of the causeway and reform there. Of course, we hope for better outcomes. Ideally, I would have you ensure Lord Tywin’s distraction long enough for him not to realize that my contingent is falling upon the Kingslayer’s host as well as winning the battle against Tywin himself. In that case, he will not get in my way and net us two victories.”

Robb turned to the other Lords and saw that they were nodding in approval. As they had marched, Robb was becoming a better commander and at least somewhat more confident in his strategic moves. He no longer had to rely on the Lords to make all the plans, though their counsel was always welcome.

“I approve,” Roose Bolton said with a nod. The others seemed to do as well, so Robb continued.

“Meanwhile, my contingent at Riverrun will see if they can outflank the Lannister forces — they won’t be expecting us there.”

Ser Brynden nodded, “I’ll see to that. My scouts will go ahead if you approve. I’ll take perhaps 300 outriders and ensure we shoot down any Lannister ravens and we’ll see to Ser Jaime’s scouts.”

Maege Mormont spoke next. “If I may? We could send Ser Marq with a small set of men to create a distraction. Perhaps to harry their supply trains. It might draw the Kingslayer out of his camp.”

Robb looked toward Ser Marq who nodded in approval and Robb suggested, “Half a hundred should be sufficient. Meanwhile, if Ser Brynden’s scouts then also raid, we’ll be assured Jaime will have to leave to deal with at least one or the other if not both. He’ll likely be expecting to deal with a small force of raiders. Meanwhile, I can bring the rest of my men round and pull him into a trap.”

Greatjon nodded. “I see your thinking. Let’s lure the Kingslayer into the woods near Tumblestone. If your men, Robb, are in the valley but hidden they could fall on Lannister from all sides and take them by complete surprise.”

“Not in the valley, but around it,” Ser Stevron suggested. “I would propose… Lady Maege’s and Lord Jason Mallister’s forces at the East, Lord Karstark’s forces to the North. Meanwhile, my own forces to the West. Across the ridge Greatjon could have his men.”

Lady Maege nodded, “When the Lannisters are drawn into the trap, we can fall on them from all sides with Robb’s forces from the middle — they could indeed be hidden at the back of the valley in the black. We only need a signal. I could sound a horn once as my vantage point will be the best if we arrange as Ser Stevron suggests. We would then all know to fall upon them.”

Robb looked around to see that everyone approved and they seemed to do. “I think the plan is good. We can refine any details as we need to when we draw closer, but we will proceed with this plan. Thank you, my lords — and lady — for your wisdom and suggestions.

As Robb rose from his chair, he noticed Lord Rickard Karstark standing near him. It seemed to Robb as if the man had something on his mind and so he invited, “Would you care to walk with me?”

Lord Rickard accepted and the two men left the tent together behind the others. However, they were no sooner out of the tent than they were greeted by a young boy in House Frey livery. He looked as if he were perhaps eight or nine — around Bran’s age. A page, Robb decided. He had been sitting on the ground, presumably waiting for the meeting to finish. However, when he caught sight of Robb, he jolted to his feet at once, brushing grass off his breeches. “I’ve a message for you, Lord Robb.”

“Of course. I am at your service,” Robb told the boy with a smile.

“Lady Roslin sent me to ask if you might wish to meet before tonight. I could show you where would be pretty to walk with her in the gardens.”

Robb was on the point of saying yes before he remembered that Lord Rickard had seemed to already want to speak with him about some matter.

“You should go. What I was going to inquire about isn’t urgent,” Rickard spoke.

Robb looked between the page and Lord Rickard but knew his duty. There was true regret in his eyes and his tone when he said, “Please give my honest regrets to Lady Roslin and let her know my duties keep me here for the present, but I… look forward to meeting her.”

The thought was odd. He was going to meet Roslin for the first time at their wedding. He would have given much and more to be able to go with the young page, but he knew what his father would do and remained steadfast in his decision. He only hoped that Roslin would be understanding. He could only imagine that she must be as nervous as himself.

After the page had left to return his message, Lord Rickard smiled slightly. “You’re a good man, Robb but I truly would not have been offended if you had wanted to go.”

“That is because you are also a good man, Lord Rickard. That said, my duty lies here first. I will have time to meet my betrothed later today. My men and duties must come before myself.”

“I am certain you have heard it before, but you are so like your father,” Lord Rickard told him as they began to walk.

Robb had heard it and wasn’t sure he was deserving of the praise, but couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride whenever he was reminded of his similarities to his father as Lord Eddard was everything he and his brothers had striven to be throughout their growing up years. “Aye. I hope I do him proud. But tell me what it is you wanted to talk about.” Grey Wind fell in beside their heels as they walked through the camp.

“I had been wondering if you had thought toward what you wished to do with your hostages, namely Tyrion Lannister.”

It was a good point. Robb chewed his lip. It was something he had considered but not yet come to a conclusion on. Robb had one hostage — one of any particular value anyway — but both his sisters and his father to try to win in exchange. It would be poor military strategy to try to use the Imp to reach his sisters, but he knew it was what his father would want. Eddard would want Sansa and Arya out of King’s Landing as soon as possible. However, Robb wanted his father. He wanted his council and advice. Yet, at the same time, he recognized the vulnerability of the girls. The letter he had been sent by Sansa worried him once his mother had pointed out how unlike Sansa the note sounded truly. It was a question with no good answer.

“I’ve not thought my way to a particularly good solution,” he admitted sheepishly. “Have you a suggestion?”

Lord Rickard seemed slightly surprised to be asked his opinion on the matter and considered the question. “I would not act too swiftly. The Lannisters will likely expect you to try to trade hostages at the first possible moment. They will take you as a boy who will want his father and sisters back — someone easy to take advantage of if you offer terms too quickly.”

Robb nodded. It was what he had been afraid of, really. “There is that. And the fact that I have one hostage to their three.”

“The battle you plan to wage against the Kingslayer at Tumblestone by luring his host into a trap might be an apt time to try to capture more hostages.”

It was a good point. If the trap functioned right, the Lannister host would be completely taken by surprise and, in the chaos, it would not be difficult to capture more men. “You make a wise point. They would need to be officers or knights in Lannister house employ, though. Elsewise, they will not be interesting to Lord Tywin. Likewise, I think I would be wise to try to wage a hand full of battles — ideally victories — before offering trade terms unless Lord Tywin brings them up first. The longer I delay and the more I have to offer, the more I can expect in return.” _I hope_.

“I’m glad to know this is how you are thinking. You are learning quickly.”

Robb couldn’t resist a small smile at the compliment. “Thank you, my lord.”

“One other thing I will leave you with to consider. Once you have your few victories, Lord Tywin may wish to talk terms with you about more than hostages. I would advise you to think about what you want.”

“Well…” Robb sighed and ran a hand through his auburn hair. Initially he had started this because he wanted to free his father and sisters. At some point, however, it had spun well out of hand of that. Now, it had become a full on war. “I think.. It’s too late to go back.” A grim determination settled over him. “It is something I will bring up next we all meet. I am not inclined to offer him easy terms. We’ve come too far. On the other hand, a war in the south means less time for bringing in another harvest in the North before winter.”

“Indeed. The men will follow you. If you continue to press on. Most houses are well provisioned enough. Likewise, the Southron Lords will need the relief. That, too, is something to consider. They have become involved and would be left without enough aid if we pull North too quickly. Not that I look forward to a drawn out affair either.”

Again, Lord Rickard made excellent points. Robb had allied with the River Lords and their plight was entirely different from the North. Many of their fields and holdfasts were burnt and pillaged.“Another question to raise — perhaps with those Lords themselves. I suppose it is possible we may need to augment their stores if the Winter is a long one. Regardless, I want to try to include as many as possible in the decision. I do not wish something the other Lords do not support. You have offered leal service in House Stark’s time of need, and I would like as many of us to be of a mind as possible on our courses of action henceforth. I shall bring this matter to council as well.”

While Robb’s headache was gone, his mind was reeling with all the points Lord Rickard had given him to consider before they met in council again.

&&

When Robb had finished all the business that needed to be attended to within the camp, he returned to his tent to find almost everything had been removed save Grey Wind’s blanket, which the direwolf was laying on. When Robb entered, Olyvar Frey hopped up from the ground. “I hope you will forgive me of taking the liberty of being in your tent,” He muttered hesitantly.

Robb was definitely recognizing what his mother had meant when she said Olyvar was an anxious sort. As well, it still bore the need for some getting used to, the idea of having a squire to attend to needs he generally attended to on his own and didn’t mind doing so. He wasn’t sure he actually needed a squire, but Olyvar was quick and able so far as it seemed, so if this was what he wanted, Robb did not have an objection.

“You’re my squire.” He pointed out. “There’s no reason for you not to be here.” And he offered the boy a small smile in hopes he could reassure him. Well, he called him a boy but Robb could tell he was probably his own age give or take a year. “Though all of my things appear to be… missing.”

“Oh! Ser Brynden, your lady mother, and some others are moving into Water tower for the night, and I took the liberty of moving your things over as well so you would be settled. I already arranged a bath for you and someone to give you a shave if you want. Your armor and such is moved there for you to dress in the morning. The only thing I didn’t move is your wolf’s pallet. He doesn’t seem all that… sure of me yet.”

Robb looked over at Grey Wind who was still laying contentedly on the aforementioned pallet. “Olyvar is a friend. Stop being difficult. Off, you.” Robb said jerking his head to the side in indication. “To me.” He instructed and Grey Wind came. Robb took some time to rub Grey Wind’s head and ruff. He no longer had to lean down to pet him. The direwolf came up almost to his lower chest now and must have weighed some fourteen stone by now. He could see why Grey Wind was surely imposing to others.

“Come and pet him if you want. He’ll be good now.”

“You’re sure that’s a good idea? He won’t… bite my hand off or something?”

“No. I told him you’re a friend.”

So, Olyvar came forward and placed a very hesitant hand on Grey Wind’s flank and give him a little scratch. The wolf seemed happy enough about that. Robb picked up the pallet and handed it to Olyvar. “Hopefully that was helpful.”

“It was my lord. Thank you.”

Robb was always embarrassed when people kept referring to him as a Lord. His father was the true lord, not Robb. “Just Robb. Please. I appreciate all you have arranged. Thank you.” He said sincerely. “Could you find out if anyone else is in need of me. If not, I think it is time I went and cleaned up. I’ll walk down by the river for a bit until you can let me know if I’m needed for anything here.” Robb could have gone to see to it himself, but Olyvar seemed so enthusiastic about his squiring duties that Robb might as well let him have them. Not to mention, he would appreciate the chance to clear his head for a few minutes before the night to come. He had barely given the instruction when Olyvar dashed out of the tent to do his bidding.

Robb also thought he might be able to pick some wildflowers for Roslin. It was small tidings compared to expecting her to participate in a marriage to someone whom she didn’t know, whom she would, in fact, not even see until they met in the sept given that his day had been filled with battle plans and talking to both common cavalry men and lords as well. Nonetheless, small tidings or not, it was something at least — he hoped.

Wandering along the banks of the Greek Fork, Robb had the first time to think and be alone and appreciate nature’s quiet beauty for the first time in weeks. While it was no Godswood, it was certainly a pleasant place to walk. Grey Wind came along at his heels, plodding silently through the grass. His familiar presence was a balm to Robb’s nervousness, which was truly setting in now that he was alone with no specific task to accomplish other than think about all that was about to unfold. The course of his life was about to be changed forever. “Please let her be good and kind and a good Lady of Winterfell,” he whispered a prayer hoping that the Old Gods could still hear him even in the South.

He moved along the bank of the river picking wildflowers. Robb found himself wishing he had paid more attention to Sansa’s ramblings about flower meanings. He found he could remember a few and made a point to choose those when he saw them. He found daisies first, finding a clump of them in a bright, sunny area. He remembered Sansa saying something about daisies meaning purity and that they were also the Mother’s flower. His father brought some to his mother every time she had given him a child — at least that Robb could remember. Robb had little doubt as to why Walder Frey wanted him to marry Roslin now. No doubt, he wanted to try to ensure Robb would get her with child sooner rather than later.

He remembered that the little yellow daffodils with their darker trumpets raised and opened represented new beginnings. That was certainly fitting enough. He found what he thought was Larkspur, too. In the North it usually was more of a purple-blue color. Here it was a soft pink, but he remembered the odd way it looked — growing up with flowers on top of each other in a line. It meant an open heart if he remembered right. Wanting to even it out a little bit, Robb picked a bit of Queen Alysanne’s lace. Was that one femininity? Maybe? He couldn’t remember. He examined the small bouquet of pink, yellow, and white and decided he was happy with it.

He looked up just then to see Olyvar cresting the hill above the river bank, moving purposefully toward him. He stopped to wait for the squire to catch up. “From what I can tell, everything has been seen to my — Robb.” He corrected himself. Apparently Robb had told him enough times now just to call him Robb.

“Thank you. Would you be willing to run one more errand?”

“Of course.” Olyvar looked at the flowers in his hand and grinned. “For Roslin?”

Robb nodded, the lately ever-present blush blooming across his face.

“She’ll love them,” Olyvar assured.

“I hope.” Robb admitted a bit hesitantly. He was slightly worried Roslin might be offended that he had not come to meet her before. He hoped she knew he had wanted to.

“She will. Girls like this kind of thing. Wouldn’t your sisters like them?”

Robb grinned. “One would love it. One would stick her tongue out at me and run off.”

Olyvar couldn’t help but smirk at that. “Well, Roslin will like them.”

“How can you be so sure?” Robb asked, handing him the bouquet.

“She’s my younger sister by a year. Your age.”

Robb’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Olyvar shrugged and smiled, “Hadn’t come up. Now that it has: be good to her.”

“I will. You have my word,” Robb promised seriously.

“I believe you,” Olyvar responded. He took the flowers and turned to go and then stopped for a moment before he looked back at Robb. “We’ll get your sisters back. And your lord father. Don’t worry.”

Robb looked at the other boy with a small smile and a nod. He knew Olyvar couldn’t truly say that anymore than he could, but it felt good to hear nonetheless.

“Better go see to these.”

“And I had better go get ready.”

&&

Robb looked around the suite that was his — and Roslin’s (a strange thought) — for the night in quiet appreciation. While the Twins’ architecture might not have been to Robb’s taste, the inside of the suites in the Water Tower were something to appreciate.

The suite denoted for his use was tucked in the undercroft of the tower where crossed arches formed the ceiling. Limestone lathed smooth to the touch made up the tower both inside and out, though the floor had been laid down in wood. A tall, narrow window faced east. Beneath it sat a tiny round breakfast table with blue flowers in a vase; these, Robb didn’t recognize. Heavy light blue and grey brocade curtains framed the window. The wall adjacent had a beautifully carved stone fireplace with a chair to the side. The central item in the room was a large bed. Its posts were carved flowers and were hung with curtains made of the same brocade as the drapes and tied back with blue and grey tassels. The coverlet was made with fringe all round the bottom. A carved end table at each side of the bed held candles and one held two goblets and a flagon Robb suspected was wine — which he felt less apt to touch after the previous night’s experience. A carved trunk with the same vining flowers as the bed’s posts sat at the foot of the bed.

It was the center of the bed Robb was drawn to when he realized the bride’s cloak his mother had sewn was spread out there. He cross to it and simple stared in wonder. It was truly a thing of beauty, and he wondered how his mother had made it so quickly. Soft grey cloth, but warm for the Northron weather, fur lining, white trim and a white direwolf sigil with black embroidery silk outline. She had stitched the Godswood with the heart tree along the back of the cloak. Robb touched his finger to the brilliant red thread that made up the heart tree and felt his throat grow thick. It was everything he could have hoped to cloak his bride in, and all he could do was stare in wonder at it. It felt like home. It was a tiny piece of Winterfell there with him even though he would be marrying Roslin in the faith of the Seven.

He looked up when he heard a footstep on the stone just outside. His mother was standing there in a beautiful gown with her hair all done up in Southron style and jewelry. Her gown was jade green with gold topaz accents. Moving with an army camp the last few moons’ turns, it wasn’t as if they usually had a chance or reason to dress in finery. They had not brought any such clothes with them, so Robb expected she had borrowed these from one of the many Frey women. If there was one advantage to the number of Freys present, it must be that there was more than enough dress clothes to borrow for the occasion. Earlier, he had seen Blackfish’s own squire helping him into dress clothing through his slightly open door as well.

For a moment, Robb could not take his eyes off his beloved mother. She looked happier than she had at any time since Bran’s fall. And when he thought about the cloak she had made for him, tears he fought not to let show gathered in the corners of his eyes and he went to embrace her. “Thank you, Mother. It is perfect. It is everything I could have wanted.” He leaned down to give her a soft kiss on both of her cheeks. Catelyn’s smile was watery too as she looked up at her son, a man-grown now. The pride she felt for him swelled within her and could not be expressed in words. Instead, she merely returned his hug quite tightly and returned his kiss on the cheek.

“I am so proud of you, Robb. You have grown into an amazing man.” Tears glistened in her eyes too. She hugged him once more, very tightly indeed. “I wish your father were here to see you.”

“We will carry him with us in our hearts.” Robb reassured, smiling slightly. “And, if the Gods are good, we will soon have he and the girls safely home again. Tonight, we will celebrate. He would wish that. I can only hope that Roslin and I may find the love and affection for one another that you and father have.”

“I wish that for you as well,” Catelyn told him, cupping his cheek gently once more. Her eldest, all of her children, made her so happy and they fulfilled her life. “Now, go and clean yourself up. I assume Olyvar saw to a bath waiting for you.”

“He did. He is doing a very good job. I’m quite pleased with him thus far, really. That seems to have been a good trade.”

“You’re of the same size, so I believe he has lent you some of his dress clothes, or is going to, based on our brief conversation.”

Robb smiled at his mother and said, “Thank you,” once more before wandering into the tower to find the place he might clean up.

Robb realized that the rooms were small squares ringing a tiny central hallway that fit perfectly into the square base of the tower. Directly across, he saw that a bathing tub had been set up in the Blackfish’s room which had more space for such a thing as it had a smaller bed — though was slightly less luxurious than his own. A barber’s tools were laid out on a leathern case, which he was glad of. He hadn’t had a chance to have a proper shave in a while. Pushing the door closed, Robb didn’t hesitate to strip out of his clothes and sink into the bath all the way up to his neck.

The water was fresh and exceptionally hot, but it felt good all the same. Robb took a breath and ducked beneath the water to wet his hair and then began to rub the soap all over with a square of linen left for a washing cloth. The soap had a woody scent with hints of both sweet and spice — sandalwood maybe? Robb made quick but thorough work of cleaning his body and washing his hair. He had not felt so clean and refreshed since bathing the night before he left winterfell. He took a moment to just lay his head back on the bathing tub and relax, though when Olyvar came in, he raised his head.

“I found you some of my clothes I think will fit,” Olyvar said, pleased.

Robb stood and wrapped a drying linen around him so he could look at the clothes. They were satin and velvet. The breeches were vertical striped navy blue and deep grey slashed through. There were grey hose style socks, fresh smallclothes, and cleaned and polished dress boots. For the top was a cream colored doublet with a pattern of grey stitching with tiny dots in sets of fours and a black jerkin with actual silver cast buttons to go over top. Robb’s sword belt, scabbard, and sword were sharpened, cleaned, and polished to a shine and brought along with the clothes. Robb couldn’t help but be amazed and thankful for the clothes and told Olyvar as much.

Not wanting to get the nice clothes mussed, Rob put on only the clean small clothes before the barber came to shave him and cut his hair. Once that was finished, Robb assured Olyvar he could go and dress and Robb would manage with his own clothes (had he not managed for five and ten years?).

Once he was dressed, anxiousness and Grey Wind were his only companions, so he paced. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he was getting married in less than an hour. It felt extremely jamais vu. Grey Wind laid on a rug by the hearth. “Glad _you’re_ so relaxed. I’m nervous as the seven hells.” Robb said, tugging slightly at the collar of his doublet. “You know, what if I’m not what she wants or she’s not what I want? I haven’t even met her, hells, haven’t even _seen_ her, and I’m wedding her in less than an hour.” Robb silently asked the Old Gods to watch over him and help him be calm and everything Roslin needed — and for good measure, since they were marrying in a sept, he asked the New ones too.

It felt like years before Olyvar came to tell him they were ready. Robb near ran out of the room before he remembered something and stepped back. “Will you keep an eye on Grey Wind tonight? And during.. The ceremony and all. He’s just always with me and, well, tonight. You know maybe it would be better if he… wasn’t?”

Olyvar looked at Grey Wind with a nervous expression but nodded.

“He’ll behave. I promise.” Robb turned to look at the direwolf. “Go with Olyvar,” he motioned so Grey Wind padded over and sat beside Olyvar. Robb could tell it was going to take the slightly anxious boy a while to get used to Grey Wind. Robb couldn’t blame him, Grey Wind was huge and it was well enough known that he had bitten off the first two joints of two of the Greatjon’s fingers. Robb gave the Wolf a rub on the head and side with a fond smile. “Thanks,” He told the squire. “He’ll likely just lay on the hearth — or else go hunting tonight.” He paused. “Did you warn Roslin about him?”

Olyvar nodded dutifully. “I told her. She likes animals, so she ought to be fine. Maybe a bit nervous of him at first but… who wouldn’t be, really? He looks like he could eat me for dinner.”

Robb looked amused. “I think a human would still be too big a prey item for a direwolf.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Though, I note you didn’t say he couldn’t kill me.”

Robb couldn’t help but chuckle. “Probably he could, but he isn’t going to. Nothing to worry about. He listens to me, and I’ve told him to behave himself. He seems to get to know what humans are in his pack. He’ll figure out you’re one of them soon enough.”

He rubbed Grey Wind once more before they left the room and headed toward the sept. Olyvar and Grey Wind parted to go stand in the crowd.

The sept was already crowded with people. Most of Roslin’s family was there, what little family Robb had with him and most of the great lords and then as many minor lords as could fit and as many foot and horse men as they could fit. The rest of the company, all twenty-one thousand of them, were as close as they could get to the building proper. The sheer amount of them made Robb’s head swim. Did all of his mean truly care about seeing him wed? The answer seemed to be indeed yes.

Inside the sept, Robb caught sight of his mother, of Blackfish, Theon, and Olyvar with Grey Wind all together near the front, and there was a sudden pining pain in his chest as he thought of those who were missing: his father, Jon, his sisters, Bran and Rickon. He took a deep breath. They would be here in his heart.

The crowd had managed to part enough for a silver carpet to be placed down for Roslin to walk on with lavender and light blue petals scattered all over it. The columns in the sept had been bedecked with white roses on vines, wrapping around the columns from top to bottom. Each of the seven faces had candles lit before their statues. He suspected that his lady mother had been there earlier in the day to pray and leave one of those candles at each of the Seven, which touched his heart. The septon stood at the front of the sept waiting for them and Robb’s nerves seemed to get that much worse, his heart pounding in his chest. Yet, there was also some sort of anticipation he could not explain as well.

He caught sight of his mother once more and she gave a slow nod of encouragement that made Robb feel better. Catching sight of Grey Wind, Robb realized they had forced him into being brushed and having a silver, white, and black ribbon put around his neck. Robb might have laughed aloud if it wouldn’t seem irreverent.

Robb stood at the front with the Septon and tried to keep his nerves under control and not fidget, which was easier said than done. It was surreal; in a few minutes he would be saying his wedding vows to a girl he had not even met. A girl he knew nothing about other than that she was kind, gentle, liked music, and liked animals, and liked painting — these things had been told him by Olyvar. They seemed promising, at least a little. That sounded a little like Sansa, and Robb though he would be okay with that as long as she could also be strong enough to survive in the harsh realities of the North when they were home again.

And then, all of a sudden, she was standing at the door to the sept. Robb had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping. This young girl in front of him, no a woman grown really — his own age, was more exquisite than he could have imagined. Perhaps beauty was skin deep alone, but Robb was fifteen and he could not help but notice her beauty. ‘Gods. This is my wife,’ Robb thought, not able to stop staring in disbelief. His heart was pounding and he tried to keep his hands from getting clammy. Robb’s blue eyes just drank her in and could not stop staring.

Roslin was small. Her head would come to his chest, just beneath his neck where he could hold her, he was willing to bet. (How was he already thinking of holding her?) She was slender with delicate features. Her skin was very white, like magnolias, Robb thought — the sort that grew in the warm glass gardens at Winterfell. Her cheeks were currently flushed with pink. Her features were so delicate. She had a soft closed mouth smile (he’d later learn the way she smiled helped her to hide a small gap between her front teeth. She was self conscious of it even though it was small). Her nose was delicate and just slightly up turned, her chin softly pointed. She had big brown eyes with long lashes; Robb knew he could melt in those eyes forever.

Roslin had long, shining nut brown hair. It reached her waist. She had done it in a Northron style, Robb noticed in disbelief. His throat felt thick and he tried to swallow because he realized not only was her hair Northron style, but she had woven the flowers of his bouquet into it. It was half up with two small braids leading along each side back to a braided circle shaped knot at the back. One braid was loose from the bottom of the knot and trailed down her back. The other half of her hair was left loose to flow down her back. The Queen Alysanne’s lace was tucked into the small braids along the sides. The stems were gone and just the tiny flowers poked through. She had twisted the Larkspur into her bun so that it was a circle of braid, a circle of larkspur, a circle of braid and so on. Meanwhile, the daisies and daffodils were woven, delicately, into the braid going down the back.

Roslin’s gown was a mixture of white cream and softly muted peach pink. It had a square neck with slender three quarter sleeves made of cream lace. The overdress was cream silk with peach flowers embroidered around the bottom, their centers made of pearls and opals. The under dress was the peach color. The dress’s bodice was cream around the sides but peach up the front. It laced down the back with peach ribbons. Tied about her neck was a grey velvet cloak edged in deep blue. Robb knew it would have the twin castle sigil of house Frey at the back. Robb couldn’t help but think how she would look with his grey and white bride’s cloak about her shoulders.

‘Gods she is beautiful.’

Roslin was with Lord Walder who was leaning heavily on a walking stick. Robb realized he did not walk well at all, could barely do it in fact, but seemed determined to walk with Roslin through the sept. He noticed Roslin was helping her father along and was touched by her gentle care and thoughtfulness.

Robb was not the only one staring. Roslin had seen Robb from afar but never this close. He was handsome, tall and strong with broad shoulders. He had a mop of curly auburn hair and soft blue eyes the same as many members of the Tully family — they matched his mother’s, she realized. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard and mustache and lips that looked soft. She imagined that soon she would find out how soft and had to fight to keep her face from reddening. Her heart was pounding as fast as she had ever known it to do. In his hands was carefully folded a bride cloak for her. Roslin helped her father sit in a chair, placed at the front for that purpose, before turning to Robb.

Their eyes met and Robb hoped his stomach was not the only one doing flip-flops.

Roslin hoped her heart was not the only one pounding as if she had ridden her horse in a race.

Robb found that he wanted to take her hand in his, but it wasn’t time yet.

“Hello.” Roslin whispered. Robb was nearly borne away by the soft, sweet sound of her voice.

“Hello.” He whispered back, and she gave a soft smile that made his breath catch already. In that moment, neither of them were able to look away, their eyes meeting and not parting — her brown and his blue. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you today.” He whispered with true regret in his voice.

Roslin’s heart swelled. “You were meeting with your Lords. That was important.” And he could have kissed her for understanding. But he wasn’t allowed to touch her just yet. So he smiled at her instead, just a small smile, but it said everything: a smile of hopefulness for the future one could say. Gods, did he already care for this girl before him? This girl who would be with him for the rest of his life? Was she feeling the same about him? Not a single thing mattered except them. Robb’s world had shrunk to the size of just Roslin. He might have been surprised to learn she was feeling just that same thing.

So fixated on each other were they that Roslin almost jumped slightly when she heard the septon’s voice as they all took their places between the statue of the mother and the father. She wanted to take his hands.

Robb wanted to feel her small hands clasped in his too, but not yet. So, instead, he turned to the septon.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Robb and Roslin where sharing shy smiles and pink cheeks. Something warmed in his stomach when Roslin bit her lip lightly during her smile. Gods she was beautiful. And something warmed in Roslin’s heart when she saw the tenderness in Robb’s blue eyes.

Slowly, Robb untied the cords at the front of her cloak that held it closed and then slid it down her shoulders. He was careful as he folded it and set it aside. His touch was so warm on her skin as he wrapped soft fingers around her arm to encourage her to turn so he could put his own cloak on her. Robb’s entire body felt as if it was thrumming with an energy he had never felt before. Whatever it was, he thought he liked it. Tenderly, he spread the Stark cloak over Roslin’s shoulders and tied the ribbons before she turned back to him. Both of them were smiling shy smiles at one another again.

Roslin’s heart pounded and her skin tingled where Robb’s bride cloak had replaced her maiden cloak. She was his now. The Stark cloak on her shoulders was proof of it. In her quiet, soft nature she had dreamed of a match made for love even though she knew that was not how it worked for highborn maidens. But, maybe, just maybe, it could happen. The way she felt beneath his cloak was an emotion so strong she didn’t know how to describe it beyond a safety and happiness she had never known before.

The Septon was saying something, but Robb could barely hear him. It was as if the man was a hundred leagues away. The only thing he could focus on in that moment was Roslin.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Robb found his bride’s hand and felt her fingers slip between his as if they were meant to be there. His skin tingled where she touched.

Roslin felt his large hand envelope hers and felt safety descend on her as she had never felt before. Robb Stark had claimed her. She was his now. His hands were larger than hers and lightly calloused from work with his sword. Their hands were perfect together. Could it be a good omen of things to come?

Robb looked down as he saw the septon begin to tie an intricate ribbon around their hands. His eyes went back to hers, meeting, holding. Finally their hands were tied together. Neither could have made sense of or put into words what they felt if they’d been asked to try. Robb only knew it was one of the most powerful things he’d ever felt in his life and Roslin felt the same.

“Let it be known that Roslin of House Frey and Robb of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, and one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

Even though the Septon undid the ribbon, Robb made no move to separate their fingers and neither did Roslin. She liked holding his hand. Her hand felt like it belonged in his and always had, somehow. His hand felt to her as if he was protecting and cherishing her. Her family was large, and sometimes she felt lonely. But this man was claiming her and only her. And she could already feel that love could grow for him if he was the man she believed him to be from what she had heard.

Robb kept his fingers gently laced through hers. Her fingers felt so soft and delicate in his. Her skin was like cream. Softly, he rubbed his thumb against the center of her palm and was rewarded with a small smile and gentle brown eyes. Softly, he let his fingers stroke hers, just a bit. He wanted so much to pull her into his arms and hold her against him. He wanted to know what her mouth would feel like against his, though it was not something he had ever known before. Yet, he knew he wanted it. But there would be plenty of time for that at the feast when they ate, drank, made merry, and danced. But he could not stop himself from slowly caressing her cheek with his free hand. He felt her lean toward his hand just a bit.

“Look upon each other and say the words,” the Septon instructed. Robb dropped his hands and took both of hers in his.

Roslin stared up at him. Somehow, there was no nervousness like she expected. There was only a feeling that she thought might lead to true love. When he had touched her cheek it had felt wonderful. It had felt loving, protective, safe. Had the Gods heard her prayers and brought Robb to her? They must. She could not think how many hours she had spent praying at the Mother’s and the Maiden’s feet the night before: until her knees were raw. Could he possibly be everything she had prayed for: brave, strong, kind, faithful, honest, intelligent, gentle… could one man be all of those things? Roslin wasn’t sure but somehow she thought it was possible Robb could be as they held each other’s hands tightly.

Robb and Roslin stared deep into each other’s eyes and began to speak together as one. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days.” And he shivered when she repeated it save making it “I am his and he is mine.” Their fingers were remained clasped tightly.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Robb murmured.

Robb had never kissed anyone before, though Theon had given him advice on it years before. Despite his lack of experience, Robb found that he was not scared at all, not with the beautiful, sweet girl in front of him. Slowly, Robb figured it out, sliding a hand into the back of her hair to tilt her face up to him and Roslin stepped closer slightly until they were chest to chest. Roslin’s fingers spread along beside his shoulder while Robb’s free hand slipped around her lower back, pulling Roslin close against him. She rested her head into his hand, trustingly. Robb tipped his face over hers and slowly pressed his lips against hers. Tiny electric shocks felt as if they were going all through his body. He could smell her scent and feel her mouth so very soft against his.

She felt his lips too. Her fingers held more tightly around his upper arm and her free hand clenched the jerkin at the nape of his neck. She could smell his scent and found it intoxicating. There was a woody scent to it with slight spice, metal from his sword seemed to have worked their way into him somehow, and the soft warmth of his breath over her lips. And when his mouth touched hers, Roslin tipped her face up and pressed her mouth softly against his own. She knew nothing about kissing, just did what felt good. Softly, trying to figure it out, their lips moved together in a way that sent sparks all through her body.

Robb didn’t rush to end the kiss. It was soft, with the innocence of their mutual first kisses, but beautiful nonetheless. Roslin found the hand on his chest moving round to join both hands behind his neck and lift herself to her tiptoes to press her mouth more firmly against his. Robb thought it was both an eternity and could never be long enough by the time their kiss broke. Roslin’s eyes were glowing as was her face. One strand of her hair was in her face and Robb gently brushed it away.

The entire audience applauded then, but neither bride nor groom saw them or cared. They had eyes only for each other. “I think I’m falling in love with you.” Robb breathed softly enough only for Roslin to hear.

Her heart thrilled to the words and she repeated honestly, “And I you.”

Robb offered her his arm and Roslin linked hers through it as they moved across the sept to get outside. Her arm was warm in his and his was strong and reassuring in hers. “Shall we go to our wedding feast?”

“Mm hm. I’m starving,” Robb admitted with a soft chuckle.

“Me too. I was too nervous to eat.” Roslin admitted. “Now, I know I have nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing. Until the end of my days and yours.” Robb whispered. He looked around for a moment to see how many people might notice before he tipped her jaw up to kiss her very quickly. Even though he was quick, he still attracted attention and some claps as well as a wolf whistle that Robb knew had come from Theon without even having to look. “Let them look. You are my husband.” Roslin whispered; a sense of pride and warmth flooded him.

Then, Robb took her arm again and led her toward the castle at which the feast was taking place.

As Robb held Roslin close to him, he could not help but look around the Great Hall impressed by how quickly the women had managed to turn it into a place of beauty truly worthy of their wedding feast. This part of the castle was made of fieldstone both floor and wall. It had a gambrel roof a story above with strong wooden beams to support it. Two high, small windows up by the roof let in a bit of light from the full moon, but most of the light was from candles and a roaring fire in a gigantic fireplace. White roses were placed across the top of the mantle. At one end there was a dais for the wedding party while the rest of the room was given over to numerous long tables and benches. Robb knew that outside on the banks of the river even more men were celebrating. Behind the dais huge banners of House Stark and House Frey unfurled down the wall. A chandelier of brightly lit candles cast light through the room as well. Place settings were at the tables just waiting for food to be brought out.

More comfortable chairs were at the high table versus the common benches. Robb carefully pulled out Roslin’s chair for her and then settled himself beside her as they began to greet both the members of their table and others as well. He found his left hand slipping into hers beneath the table and smiled at her. Roslin smiled back. This whole thing felt surreal and as if it was just part of some big dream that Robb didn’t want to end. He pinched himself a couple of times but found he didn’t wake up, that this was really happening.

“Your brother said you like music.”

Roslin nodded excitedly. “Very much. I enjoy dancing too.”

“Do you play any instruments?” He asked. Robb found he was legitimately enjoying getting to know his young, pretty, sweet wife. So far, she was everything and more that he could have hoped for.

They had been served the traditional pigeon pie and Roslin was taking small, ladylike bites from it. She stopped, though, and nodded excitedly when Robb asked. “Yes, the harp, the flute and the harpsicord. Usually I play songs that are well known, but.. I have composed a little.” There was a flush of pleasure and shy happiness all over her face.

“Will you play for me? When there’s a chance.”

Roslin nodded excitedly and smiled a bit, giving his hand a squeeze. “Of course. I would be happy to. If you want.”

“I would like to hear anything my beautiful lady wife wants to play for me.” Robb knew he was flirting a little bit, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Roslin just ducked her head and blushed, but Robb could tell she was smiling.

“What do you do as a hobby?”

“I enjoy archery and sword play. Sometimes I hawk when there’s time.”

“Do you ever joust? You would be very good.”

Robb shook his head, “I never have, though it doesn’t mean I couldn’t. My lord father has always said sword and lance should be saved for true combat, that he doesn’t like to draw steel unless it is truly needed. He is very serious like that. But.. If.. I fought in a joust and won then I could crown you my queen of love and beauty.” Robb said.

Roslin was blushing a bit still and smiled. “You would choose me?”

“In a heartbeat. You’re beautiful and kind.” Robb murmured, reaching to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “You’re wearing my flowers,” he breathed.

Roslin nodded, “Yes… it was so kind of you to pick them for me, and I wanted to find a way to incorporate them, so. Thank you for them. Later, I’ll press them so I will be able to keep them and all their beautiful colors.”

“And you’re wearing your hair Northron.”

“Yes.” She murmured. “I thought you might.. Like it. I’m sorry there’s no Godswood here for us to marry in. I know you follow the Old Gods.”

Robb’s fingers stroked her cheek. “I thought it was perfect just the way it was. And I do love your hair too. It’s beautiful done up how you have it.”

“If my lord husband likes it, perhaps I’ll have to wear it this way more often,” she murmured.

“Your lord husband will likely kiss you every morning if you wear it as such,” Robb teased softly.

“Then I shall wear it Northron every day so my lord husband will kiss me every morning,” Roslin teased, though there was the hint of something very real and honest beyond her soft teasing.

“I think, from what little experience we’ve had, that I’ll be happy to oblige,” Robb murmured, his face reddening.

“I think I would like that very much.”

He had to change the subject before he kissed her again right there.“You like animals.” He continued.

She nodded, “Yes. Very much. I have a cat. And you… have a direwolf.”

“Yes. Grey Wind. Olyvar is seeing to him for the night. Will he scare you?”

“I don’t think so as long as he doesn’t decide I look like a tasty snack.”

Robb chuckled. “He won’t. You can meet him tomorrow.”

“Were you nervous? When you called the banners?”

“Terrified.” Robb admitted. “But I didn’t know what else to do. I have to get my father and sisters back, and we can’t let the Lannisters just destroy the Riverlands, so they’ve not given us much choice in the matter. He smiled slightly, grimly. “But tonight we will forget about all of that. Tonight all that matters is us.” Robb murmured, brushing fingers through her hair again.

“Us.” She murmured. “I.. I think I.. Like the sound of that.”

“I think I do too,” Robb responded, honestly.

Roslin shyly skirted the topic then. “Will you tell me what Winterfell is like?”

Robb couldn’t help but smile. Roslin was doing everything to win his heart and he hoped he was doing the same for her. “Mm well, the keep is huge and kind of sprawling with great walls to protect it. There are two, one inside the other. The outer is eight feet and the inner one hundred feet with a moat between. There are guard towers on both the outer and inner walls. So it is a very safe keep. The main gates have a gate house and a drawbridge that opens into the edge of Winter Town. Oh! Winter Town. Outside the walls there is a village called Winter Town. You’ll probably enjoy visiting there. My sisters always did. There is a tunnel inside the inner wall that goes halfway around the castle so you can go from the south gate to the north secretly. We all made use of that from time to time, not always for toward purposes. There are three gates. One opens to the wolfswood so we can leave without going through Winter Town. The East Gate opens directly to the King’s Road and the Battlements gate is the one with the drawbridge that opens to Winter Town.” Robb paused before he continued.

“Winterfell was built near an ancient wood called the Wolfswood. My siblings and I had plenty of adventures there. There are hot springs to bathe in. Specifically, the keep was built on part of them and pipes run hot water through the walls and it makes it warm even on the coldest days.”

Roslin seemed to almost let out a breath of relief and Robb couldn’t help but chuckle. “All I’ve ever heard of the North is how cold it is!” Roslin defended, giggling herself.

Robb’s leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “I’ll keep you warm,” though predictably his face was quite pink as he said it. And he was sitting close enough to Roslin he could feel a shiver go through her.

“I think I will like that very much.”

Robb had to return to his story of Winterfell before he choked. He was well aware (to his chagrin) that his parents enjoyed the physical aspects of their marriage a good deal. He and Jon had learnt that in ways they probably should not have done. But that did not necessarily mean all marriages were as such. He knew that many wives considered marital relations to be a duty and to be done primarily to bring children into the world. Robb had never before had to think about that, but found himself hoping it might be otherwise for he and Roslin.

“Um.” He stumbled causing Roslin to giggle again. She seemed to enjoy his awkward embarrassment. “The uh.. There’s dozens of courtyards within the walls. There’s a place for weapons training and a forge. There are huge stables of course. Perhaps I could… maybe you would like a little filly of your own? I know you love animals. And of course.. You must bring your kitten. We’ll figure out a way to care for it on the journey.”

Roslin excitedly wrapped her arms about him, squeezing him as hard as she could. Robb jerked slightly in surprise but then grinned at her. Clearly she liked this prospect.

“I never thought I’d be allowed!”

“Of course you are. And if there is a horse you like here, I will talk to your father and see if we can bargain for it.” And they went through the process of hugging all over again but this time Robb was more prepared and hugged her in return. It was an awkward motion with them sitting in chairs side by side but he managed it. As well, he pressed a light kiss to the cheek people couldn’t see.

Finally, he was unembarrassed enough to return to his explanation of Winterfell. “There is a place for archery training as well. There is an old broken tower. It’s called the burnt tower and the archery is near there. Once, it was the tallest watch tower but a century or so ago it was set afire by a lightning strike. The top third collapsed and it just never was rebuilt. But I’ve gone on and on.”

“No!” Roslin squeezed his hand. “Winterfell will be my home. I want to know everything about it. Please, tell me more.”

Robb smiled and squeezed her hand in return. “Well, I suppose if I continue with the outer keep — as I am really not thinking to tell this in any order it seems — There is the First Keep. It’s a drum tower. It’s technically the oldest surviving part of Winterfell, but no one really uses it for anything anymore. Winterfell is so huge that that often happens — things not really needing to be used. Brandon the Builder — yes, the same who built the wall — built Winterfell eight thousand years ago.

Roslin’s eyes widened, “Eight thousand years. That’s fascinating. Our Crossing was only built six centuries or so ago and I believed it was old.” She admitted with a chuckle.

Roslin’s eyes were alight with curiosity and so Robb continued. “The First Keep isn’t in use either. But there is a lichyard where the ancient Kings of Winter buried loyal servants. The keep has Gargoyles atop it. One of the old maesters before I was born said that was built after the Andals arrived.”

“Perhaps we could restore some of these buildings. And use them again. One day.” Roslin suggested.

Robb smiled softly, “I would like that very much.” He paused and then continued. “I mentioned the lichyard, I suppose I ought to mention the crypts. The bones of thousands of years of Starks are there. It is underground and made of stone. Each of the deceased has a statue carved in their likeness. I’m sure my little … sister.” He almost stumbled over the word but made himself go on, though he felt Roslin squeeze his hand again and that meant more to him than words ever could. “Arya would be sure to tell you that a sword is placed in the hands of each statue. The legend is that the swords keep the spirits of the dead from roaming the castle. She’d also be sure to tell you that some of the swords have rusted away by now. She loves to make up ghost stories.” He admitted, chuckling slightly.

“_When_ we get them back,” Robb noticed she did not use ‘if’ and her tone was very strong when she said ‘when’. “I will tell her the ghost stories of the Crossing. We have some as well.”

Robb smiled, “She would adore that.”He was quiet for a moment before continuing. “Food can be a problem in the winter, I’m told. I’ve never lived through a winter, so I don’t remember. But we have a glass garden heated by the hot springs that grows both food and flowers. Its panes are stained glass of green and yellow. It is very beautiful really. My other sister Sansa was the one who made me learn all about the flowers in there — and the ones just growing wild. Um. There is a Bell Tower. It’s connected to the rookery by a covered bridge and that runs all the way from the fourth floor of the tower to the second floor of the rookery. We loved to play on that bridge as children. And the Maester’s turret is below that. There is a great Library Tower. There are shelves and shelves of books there and a stone staircase that winds all round it so you can go to the top. Sometimes we have gone up there to look at the constellations,” he said with a fond smile.

Roslin’s eyes glowed. “I could look at the books? I love to read.”

“Absolutely. You can do anything in Winterfell that you want.” He said, brushing soft fingers over her cheeks. “It is your home too now.” He paused and then continued. “My father built a small sept for my mother to pray in. You would be welcome there as well, I know.”

Roslin smiled again. Her lips were full of smiles tonight as she scooted as close to him as the chairs would allow. “I would like that very much. I did not think there would be any such thing in the North. But we will talk more of that later. I want to drink up every detail of _our_ home.”

He didn’t miss how she said it ‘our home’ and it sent tingles up his spine and set him to grinning like a fool. So, he continued.

“Oh let’s see. The First keep, I forgot to mention, has both undercrofts and cellars as well as dungeons and tower cells. Arya and Bran played in them as children — and Jon and I before that. But all of those things are only the outer castle. Perhaps I should tell you more about where we actually live.” He pointed out with a chuckle.”

“Please?” Roslin requested and Robb acquiesced.

“The Great Keep or Inner Castle is innermost and the stronghold of the Winterfell. Like I mentioned, it’s over the hot springs so always warm. But some of them are above ground and you can swim in them. They are warm even when snow coats the ground around them. Though it is slightly painful to come out of the warmth into the cold.” Robb admitted. “Jon and I would dare each other to jump in and then sit out in the air in just our small clothes and then jump back in,” he admitted laughing.

“That sounds like a form of torture that only young boys would invent!” Roslin protested giggling.

“No doubt it is! Nonetheless, the hot springs are fun. You must come in with me sometime. And there are even more complexes and yards inside the inner wall. The Inner Castle is made of granite and it contains the Great Keep and Great Hall. Oh and all the halls and such have great windows with diamond shaped panes. So the castle is not dark and dreary at all. All of our bedchambers and living quarters are there. My father’s solar and my mother’s. As children, we often gathered there for my father to read to us. It has a covered bridge to the armory. You can see the entire yard from that bridge. There is a Great Hall for receiving guests. When there are feasts, it can accommodate eight rows of tables and there is a dais for honored guests. It can hold five hundred people. And the walls have Stark banners — and Tully for my mother. Perhaps there will be Frey for you now… when we go.” Robb brushed her cheek affectionately. “Oh! And at the dais there is the high seat of the old Kings of the North Its arms have carved heads of direwolves on them. However, our family eats together every night as often as we can. We are close with each other.” He said with a soft smile.

“Also, there is a Godswood with an ancient Weirwood heart tree. Though the Godswood is darker and grimmer there. I suppose it reflects the nature of the North. It has its own kind of beauty once you get used to it, though.”

Finally, Robb had run out of things he could think of to tell her about Winterfell.

“It sounds amazing. And it will be my.. Our.. Home.”

Robb nodded, “Yes. Forever. As soon as we finish this. As soon as my family is safe and the River lords are too. We will go home. Together.” And suddenly, Robb realized he could not, would not, leave Roslin here at the Twins. If she was willing, she would come with him. He would ask her later.

“I can’t wait,” She said honestly in a tone that made Robb’s heart thud in his chest.

To try to calm himself down, Robb switched the topic. “You said that you have a kitten and a palfrey. Would you tell me of them?”

“The kitten is a few months old. Uncle Stevron gave her to me for my birthday. She’s orange with a white tummy and white paws, so I call her Socks.”

Robb couldn’t help but laugh at the sweet name. “That’s amusing. And aptly named. We’ll teach Grey Wind to be nice to her. He didn’t bother Winterfell’s cats when we were there.”

Roslin breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to her.”

“It won’t.” Robb murmured. He wanted to pull her forward and kiss her, but with everyone looking at them, it was a little embarrassing to do so. He resisted. “But tell me of your palfrey.”

“She’s beautiful. She is chestnut in color with an even lighter mane and tail. She is delicate but hardy. Like me, I suppose. She can run very fast. Sometimes, Olyvar and I race with our horses. She can outrun his destrier.” Roslin explained proudly. “Her name is Maiden.”

Robb had to smile at that. It was not so different from Sansa’s Lady. It was the sort of thing Sansa would name a horse if she had one. She never had, as she was not a particularly confident rider. A sadness fell over Robb when he thought of Lady and of her fate. But then a sense of confusion as he remembered the rumors of what he had heard from King’s Landing some months before. It was something he wanted very much to speak to Sansa about, but he could not get to her now. Instead, he re-directed his thoughts. “Tell me about your siblings.”

Roslin flushed in pleasure. “We are very close. I’ll miss them a good deal, and I’m extremely grateful Olyvar is your squire so he can go with us.”

“Then he can remain my squire when we go North if that is what he wants. You’ll be able to see him every day.”

Roslin beamed. “You are too good to me.” She murmured, sliding her thumb along the top of his hand without ever unclasping their fingers. “I was so scared when I learned I was going to be married, and so quickly. I was afraid of what you would be like. A great warrior does not a great husband always make.”

Robb chuckled, “I am hardly a great warrior. I’m not even the _real_ Lord of Winterfell. I haven’t even encountered any actual fighting.”

“You will be. I know it. And you must have done something because twenty-one thousand men are following your commands, Robb, and have been all the way from Winterfell for two moons. That is not a small feat. And when you do go into battle.. You will be so very strong. You will be as strong as the Warrior himself.”

Robb chuckled softly and brushed her cheek. “You have far too much faith in me, but it warms my heart all the same. Now please, tell me more of your siblings.”

“Well, Olyvar and I are the closest. We’re only eleven months apart in age so at a rare time we are the same age, but usually he is a year older than you and I. Sometimes he is anxious. He is a very dedicated person and feels that he should always do his very best at anything he tries. He has been wanting to be a squire for well over a year, but my Lord Father just.. Hasn’t seen to it. There are so many of us that I think it can be hard to manage us all,” She admitted with a tinge of sadness to her voice. “Anyway, he is a very hard worker. He dreams of being a great knight,” Roslin admitted with a chuckle. “I hope his dreams can come true. He likes to dream. He’s like me in that regard. Though such antics were not appreciated by my Lord Father so he dreams less now,” Roslin sounded a little sad. “But girls.. Can dream as they wish. And I do often enough.”

“Of what do you dream?” Robb asked her.

“The things most girls dream of, I suppose. To have a good marriage. Maybe even one that could develop into love in time. And to have many children. To paint the world and compose many songs and learn to play even more instruments. Perhaps to learn other languages. To read ever so many books. To always be close with my family — both the one I was born into and my goodfamily. Those are the things I have always dreamed of.”

“I will make them all come true.” Robb murmured. And this time he simply could not resist drawing her close so he could press his mouth to her soft one. He wasn’t sure they were supposed to kiss so much in front of thousands of people sitting on a dais in front of them all, but he found he could not restrain himself very well.

Tears shone in Roslin’s eyes. “How did I get so lucky?” She whispered. Robb brushed them away.

“I think the question is how _I _got so lucky,” His fingers linked into hers again. He found he was holding her hands so often that they were not actually eating that much, but also found he didn’t care. They had certainly made their way through the pigeon pie, and that was the important part anyway.

“I want to know everything about you,” Robb murmured.

“And I you. I suppose it is good that we have a lifetime to learn.”

“Very good. Oh.. They are calling to dance! Do you like to dance?” Her eyes were shining so very hopefully.

Robb smiled, “I’m not bad. My younger sister, Sansa, made me let her practice on me,” he admitted. And there was a yearning inside him. He so wished his siblings and his Lord Father were here. “But I could not resist dancing with my beautiful wife on her wedding night, so, will you do me the honor of dancing with me? — and I’ll try not to step on your feet.”

Roslin laughed softly. Her laugh sounded like music notes. “Of course I will. And I suspect you won’t step on my feet at all.”

Robb smirked, “I might. I’m terribly out of practice,” he pointed out.

“Then I shall have to help you get back in practice.” Roslin said. He felt her stroking a soft thumb across the skin between his thumb and first finger that made him shiver in delight and smile at her.

“I think I like the sound of that.

Robb led Roslin to the dance floor after the tables had been pushed aside to make room and took her into his arms while a singer played music for them and he spun her and spun her as her skirts flared behind them and she giggled in happiness and got Robb doing the same. This time, their faces were red from exertion and bliss rather than embarrassment, but neither wanted to stop.

Lord Walder watched them from his litter while his young wife sat beside him. He actually looked somewhat happy — or if not happy then at least satisfied at seeing his daughter so happy as she danced in the arms of the young Lord who had swept her heart away — so it seemed anyway.

It took them six dances before they stopped so that Robb could dance with his mother and Roslin danced with Olyvar. Robb wished his father was here for Roslin to dance with and that Roslin’s mother was alive. Eventually, he did take a dance with Lord Walder’s young bride and found her to be enchanting enough in her own way. He danced with some of the other Frey girls as well, but he never danced long without finding his way back to Roslin for a song or two. He didn’t want her out of his arms for long and never seemed to lose sight of her no matter whom he danced with.

“You look very happy,” Catelyn said when he danced with her.

Robb grinned, “I am. I… I am already fond of her.” Maybe it was too soon to say he was falling in love with Roslin, but he thought that might be true as well.”

Catelyn interrupted the dance for just a moment — long enough to hug her eldest to her tightly. “I’m so glad. I’m happy for you, Robb.”

Robb just smiled at his mother as he spun her about once. “And soon… soon we will have father and the girls and we will throw a great feast at Winterfell. When this is all over.”

“I hope so, Robb. I hope so.” Robb could tell in her worried blue eyes that she did not believe it would be so simple. But Robb was determined to make it so. He was determined to reunite his family, the North, and help the River Lords. He would do it. He would find a way, no matter what it took.

“It will happen. You’ll see.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek gently before the song ended and he was off to seek out Roslin again. It felt right when she was in his arms already.

He loved when he spun her about and she giggled and her brown eyes danced with pleasure. And he loved as much when the music was slow and he was able to hold her against him with his arms about her waist. They danced to Two Hearts Beat As One, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass, Six Maids In a Pool — about Jonquil and Florian, My Lady Wife, Let Me Drink Your Beauty, and then The Maiden of the Tree, also sometimes called My Featherbed.

Robb found himself singing along to the last very softly and just to Roslin as it was a slow song and he could whisper the words in her ear.

_“My featherbed is deep and soft,_

_And there I’ll lay you down,_

_I’ll dress you all in yellow silk,_

_And on your head a crown._

_For you shall be my lady love,_

_And I shall be your lord._

_I’ll always keep you warm and safe_

_And guard you with my sword.”_

And then, to Robb’s surprise, Roslin picked up the song with the lines sung by the lass in the song.She sung them softly back to him and her voice was so beautiful that everything else in the room died away.

_“And how she smiled and how she laughed_

_The maiden of the tree._

_She spun away and said to him,_

_No featherbed for me._

_I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves_

_And bind my hair with grass,_

_But you can be my forest love_

_And me your forest lass.”_

Robb smiled and pressed his forehead against hers for just a moment.

Of course… the dancing could not be complete without Greatjon singing The Lusty Lad and, once again, The Bear and the Maiden Fair. At this point many of the men were severely in their cups and joined in on both the bawdy songs. Robb, of course, was quite red given the previous night’s shenanigans with the Greatjon singing just that same song then.

And when the singer played and sang The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown. Roslin giggled in spite of herself and so did Robb.

“It feels they’re giving us a message.” Robb pointed out.

“Yes, I rather think they are!”

As was not at all uncommon as the last verse of the song began, the bedding started to be called for. It was Lord Walder himself who began the call in fact! Of course it took mere seconds for Greatjon, Smalljon, Theon, and Patrek Mallister to join right in. Robb couldn’t help but think, though, that it was rather perverse that Lord Walder himself was one of the loudest voices and had started the call — for his own daughter. He was unaware of all the lecherous comments the man had made in front of his mother the previous day and, so, could only think it passing odd.

However, his deeply reddening face and attention to the fact that the bedding was actually about to be a reality kept him from being able to think it over properly. The cries just got more raucous as Robb ducked his head and playfully tried to ignore them, keeping Roslin in his arms. So, instead, men began to stamp their feet on the floor and clap their hands and yell “A Bedding! A Bedding!”

The singer took up the song again from the beginning as women surrounded Robb and men surrounded Roslin. There were so many of them he could barely see her. He was completely surrounded now. Due to the amount of Frey women, he realized right away he was not going to get off as easily as he had perhaps hoped. Roslin was not either given the number of men between Freys and the Great Lords and as many of the bannermen who could fit in the Great Hall and were not celebrating in the tents outside. Robb hoped they would not undress her all the way but suspected that was probably a thankless wish. For himself, he didn’t really care what they did. His embarrassment had been so complete the night before that anything they did really wouldn’t top it, but he wanted to make completely sure Roslin was okay.

However, when he finally saw through the women around him whose fingers were, with surprising rapidity, divesting him of his clothes he could see Roslin giggling and playfully fending off the men even as they had her dress was half off. As long as she was okay, that was all that mattered. Robb had long ago lost his boots and stockings as well as his sword, scabbard, and belt. Then, they were undoing the buttons of his jerkin. How were they doing it so fast? How were there so many of them? They spun him back and forth between them until he was incredibly dizzy which made their task even easier. The room spun around him. He caught another glimpse of Roslin. Her gown was completely off now and was being tossed about as none of the men knew what to do with it. Her shoes and stockings were also long gone. They were working at the knots in her corset now. He saw a flash of her beautiful magnolia skin.

However, he was then completely distracted as a woman fondled him through his breeches too! Robb’s cheeks burned like the summer sun at sunset as he wriggled away from her. Not even Alrya had directly fondled him! Gods. And then the same woman had her hands on his breeches and was unlacing them. He tried to move away from her but another simply took up her cause. He tried again to avoid them but only managed to have his breeches down round his ankles so he tripped. That was when the women got hold of him and bore him off toward the Water Tower and his bedding suite on their shoulders. All the way along the bridge they’d been removing more and more clothing!

He tried to peer over their shoulders to see Roslin, but all he saw was the flash of naked legs and ankles as the men swept her up, carrying her on their shoulders just as the women were doing with him. It took significantly more women to lift the muscled Robb, but they seemed to have no problem with numbers! He could see Roslin’s dress still being bandied about through the men, flying above the crowd every few seconds like batting around a ball. He looked down again as he realized the women were now going for his smallclothes, which was the last thing he had! Dammit, he would be completely naked for sure by the time they got him to their chambers! He wondered if the men were being as determined with Roslin. Now, he couldn’t see her at all as they were on the bridge and she was behind him. Over all of it he heard bawdy continuances of The Queen Took Off Her Sandal and the Lusty Lad by turns. Gods help him. “Oh, Seven Fucking Hells!” Robb exclaimed as they ‘liberated’ him off his small clothes and threw them right into the Green Fork below! But the women only laughed and held him tighter on their shoulders.

Finally, they had reached the marriage suite and the women deposited him and the men deposited Roslin there and slammed the door behind them. However, they were far from done as the crowd pounded on the door making every manner of ribald jokes and ‘helpful’ suggestions. Robb was pretty sure he distinctly heard Theon yell, “Make sure she’s wet!”

However, once Robb caught sight of Roslin everything outside their room faded away completely. He couldn’t even hear the men and women outside their door. His wife (how odd it felt to think!) was standing in front of the roaring fire, lit from behind. From what he could tell, she had managed to maintain only a sleeveless shift that reached her knees. And even that was ripped at the back. Then again, it wasn’t as if they had been ‘kind’ to him either considering he was as naked as his nameday! But he was also as completely unaware of his own nakedness as he was to the yelling outside the door. He was simply staring at Roslin with wide eyes because Gods was she beautiful.

The light of the fire made her body glow beneath the shift. He could see through it. He could see the outline of her breasts, could see her nipples, pink and inviting and already pebbled, could see the dark, secretive place between her legs. He could see the curve of her hips. Petite she might be, but she had a figure under all that fabric.

Robb was vaguely aware that with all his staring, he had started to get hard. Actually, being that he was a green boy, it barely took any time at all before it was a thing well past ‘started.’ Though it wasn’t what she was looking at (yet) as far as he could tell. Instead, her eyes were tracing along his broad shoulders and strong chest. And for a few moments all they could do was stare at each other in silent wonder and appreciation. Robb longed to feel every part of her and have her warmth against his skin. But he remembered some piece of advice the night before about going slowly. So, instead, he said “They left us some wine. Would you like some?”

Roslin only shook her head slowly and bit her lip. Her doing that made his cock twitch, though he ignored it. And then Roslin ran toward him while he took quick steps toward her until their bodies collided. Roslin wrapped her arms around his neck and nearly pulled herself all the way up into his arms. He caught her in time and helped, wrapping a strong arm around her back to hold her and pressed the other hand up into her hair.

She linked her legs around his waist. Her shift rode up around her hips and Robb let out an actual groan as he remembered they had divested her of her small clothes as well. He could feel the heat of their most intimate areas pressed together. _Gods_. Roslin linked her ankles tighter around him, shifting herself into a more secure position, and somehow it felt even better than his experience the previous night. _Oh Seven!_

Robb pressed his hand gently against the back of Roslin’s neck and she didn’t hesitate to respond, bringing her lips to his. This time, the kiss was messier than the ones they had exchanged before in their haste to find each other’s mouths and explore them thoroughly. They bumped noses for a minute, but didn’t let it bother them as she simply turned her face slightly. Robb’s mouth was soft and heated beneath her own and she felt secure in his arms, safely wrapped against him as warmth mingled between their bodies.

She could feel every muscle of Robb’s chest and stomach for as little thick as her ripped shift was. She could feel his aroused body pressing into hers. Having grown up with as many older sisters and girl cousins, Roslin was well aware of male anatomy even though she hadn’t seen it for herself. Well, not since she and a boy cousin had played ‘maester’ as children, but that didn’t count. Now, she was far more curious, though his mouth was currently too distracting to allow her to follow any curiosity she might have. Moreover, the free hand he had in her coming-down hair felt good.

Her lips slipped between his, enveloping his lower lip and causing the tips of their tongues to brush for just a second. It was accidental but sent what felt like a shockwave up her spine. It must have felt as nice for him, as Robb held her closer which hadn’t seemed possible until he did it. It was shocking to her how the things she had heard about, though odd indeed, somehow felt amazing and exhilarating with Robb. She had not thought there would be anything particularly pleasant about touching tongues in a kiss, but every time they did she liked it more and more.

She liked his taste and his scent all around her. It made her head spin as if they had drunk the aforementioned wine — and she knew she had not drunk enough wine at the feast to make her head spin this much. Her fingers knotted in Robb’s curls and guided him to press his mouth all the more firmly on her own. His mouth tasted of the meats from the feast, a little of wine, a little of some cream desert they had had. His scent was that inexplicable one of wood and spice and sweet mingled with metal and Gods but was it nice. She wished he could rub it off on her so she would be able to smell it all the time. Perhaps it would all change — after all, they said it would hurt, but at the moment she failed to see how some of her sisters considered this a ‘duty’ it felt as if her blood was boiling, her body singing. He became more bold, slipping his tongue around hers and she didn’t hesitate to respond in kind.

When she shifted against him again, Robb found his hold on her slipping as he gasped in a breath, but he didn’t let her fall. He placed her lightly on her feet, their bodies never parting as she wrapped both arms around his neck and leaned up on her toes to kiss him still more. Her warmth was a fascination to him, or perhaps it was the warmth they were creating together; he wasn’t quite sure anymore. His knees were almost weak now and he began to walk her backward toward the bed. It was a very messy ‘walk’ weaving this way and that with them stepping all over each other’s feet and her arms never leaving from around his neck and his never leaving from around her waist, although they were giggling amidst their kisses. “I think I’m drunk on you,” she whispered against his mouth. He had to agree he felt the same.

Robb could tell when the back of her shins hit the bed behind her and Roslin lost her balance unexpectedly and the two went sprawling into the bed with Robb splayed on top of her and quickly rolling to the side so he wouldn’t crush her. Both of them were giggling like mad as they rolled over one another on the bed. In between the giggles, Robb was blindly reaching to the head of the bed to grasp at the comforter, furs, and linens to get them out of the way. However, he was also too busy kissing Roslin to really be able to focus on the task of getting the linens pulled back and so continued pulling blindly at them, but they were tucked securely. Perhaps it didn’t help that Roslin had started to become braver and was gently exploring his tongue and lips with her own and making him feel as if he was floating. “Dammit.” Robb muttered, trying to yank at the bed linens once again.

“Are you having trouble?” Roslin couldn’t resist teasing him a little bit as their lips broke.

“Could say that,” Robb managed breathlessly.

Roslin responded by rolling over the top of him and pulling him with her so they were no longer horizontal on the bed. Robb groaned as he felt her body slide against his. It took some doing to get the linens loose given they were laying on them and the majority of both their attentions were given over to kissing rather than accomplishing their task. Eventually, though, the bed was undone and the furs covered their lower legs. In unspoken agreement, neither of them seemed to feel the need to have them any higher. They were generating their own warmth anyway.

He took advantage of Roslin being atop him to slide his hands along the smoothness of her legs and thighs until he reached the shift that had bunched about her waist by now. Their eyes met for just a moment, his asking permission and hers granting as he skimmed his hands up her hips and sides as he slid the shift over her head. He felt her sharp intake of breath as his thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts while he was sliding the shift up and off.

When it was off, Robb realized there was nothing between them now, and he held Roslin on his chest and slid his hands along her back beneath her waves of hair and kissed her. His hands were slightly hesitant as he began to slide them over her skin again now that he didn’t have the pretext of removing her shift as an ‘excuse’ but the soft catches of her breath rewarded him with knowledge he was apparently doing what she liked. Slowly, he rolled them onto their sides to face each other and so that the light from the fire bathed them in a dull glow. He would have been lying if he had said he wasn’t anxious to see her without the shift. And when he did it only caused a shuddering feeling in his belly and a stab of pleasure that went through his cock, already so unmercifully hard. Once again, his fingers brushed over the curve of her hip, up her side, slowly pressing over her breast, stroking its soft pink mound of flesh with his thumb, finding it firmer beneath his touch than he had expected. Robb’s eyes flashed to Roslin’s when she let out a soft gasp in response to his touches, but when their eyes met, she only leaned forward to kiss him and he lost himself in her lips.

She had once expected that she would feel worried or exposed on her wedding night while a husband she fully expected not to know well yet looked at her and touched her, but she felt neither thing with Robb. His touches were warm, soft, and a little shaky. She could tell he was nervous too. His gaze was like an artist staring in wonder at a tapestry or painting. She wondered how it was possible her body could make him have that expression and how his lips could make her feel like she was flying and his hands touching her feel like a thousand coals upon her skin, and yet she loved it all the same. No, this was not what she had expected a bedding to be like, and she was glad it had been anything other than her expectations. Then again, those had shifted some throughout the evening, really ever since she heard the sincerity and gentleness in Robb’s tone when he spoke his words to her.

Her fingers slid against the planes of his chest and she felt tremors and the release of gasping breath as her touch ran along his strong muscles, over his shoulder, along his jaw, all the while kissing and stopping to catch their breaths and then doing so again. Robb’s fingers explored and learned her body with a gentleness she had never quite expected a husband could have. She loved the feel of his hard, strong muscles under her hands and the soft sound of his breath against her ear, the feel of his well-kept beard tickling against her skin, not as scratchy as she’d have expected. He was so much bigger than her, enveloping her petite frame in his strength. Somehow, even his nude form and what it revealed didn’t concern her. She trusted that he wouldn’t hurt her. Instead, she found herself far more curious about his body and found her fingers slipping down the chiseled skin of his stomach, over the jutting bone of his hip and then slowly across his aroused length.

The touch caused a blinding flash of sensation and Robb hissed as he felt Roslin’s burning touch. She went to withdraw her hand, but Robb shook his head, “No, that.. It.. Was good.” He managed. There would be no way for him to describe how good and how much he, perhaps selfishly, wanted her to keep touching him.

“Show me?”

Robb had to stifle a moan at the mere idea that Roslin not only didn’t mind touching him but that she wanted him to show her what he liked. Robb covered her hand with his and slowly guided her fingers along his cock showing her how to slide the tips of her fingers along his length and both of them gasped together when he guided her thumb over the tip. Like everything, he hadn’t expected just how intense her touch would be compared to his own, and only a few brushes of her fingers left him gasping for breath as his mouth melded with hers in response.

His own fingers slid along her skin and found their way hesitantly to brush through the slightly coarse curls at the apex of her thighs and between them. Surely, his touches were clumsy and amateur, but her intake of breath encouraged him as did the fact that when his fingers dipped between her folds of skin he was absolutely certain he now understood what Theon had said about making certain she was ‘wet.’ When he touched her, she shifted pleasantly beneath him and his fingers came away coated with clear, stringy wetness. He liked the sounds she made when he touched her this way and remembered Theon had once bragged about bringing a girl ‘off’ with his mouth. At the time, Robb had not entirely understood what he meant, but an added two years and the night of debauchery and advice had ensured he knew exactly what Theon had meant by this point. He wished he could do it to Roslin.

Robb’s fingers produced reactions from her that she hadn’t entirely expected. The intensity of the sensation provoked when he brushed between her folds made her head swim and her stomach flip. She felt herself squirm against his touch. A deep ache had begun to settle inside her that seemed to be at least partially acknowledged by his fingers brushing her woman’s place, exploring to find where his touches would be most rewarded by her moans and she trembled when he found the place most sensitive to his touch and stroked her there in the **midst** of her heat and wetness. She found herself arching her back to press her hips forward into his touch. “That’s good?”

She nodded quickly in affirmation and then managed a gasped “Very good.”

“Can I … well let me try…” For he also remembered what he’d been told about fingers. And when he experimentally slid one inside her a little way the way her muscles clenched around him made him shudder almost as much as she did. She was tight. He didn’t know how he’d expected it to feel, but it was nice. He found himself sliding the finger back and forth and searching again with his thumb for the place that had made her arch into his hand. Inexperience took him a while to find it again, but when he did, the combination of this and his finger inside her caused a wanton moan she couldn’t hide to spill from her lips, but that only made Robb kiss her and claim her moan in his own lips. For some perverse reason she found that she was proud of him. Her sisters had told her if he was ‘good’ that he would start with his fingers, and he was hers and he was good. She couldn’t resist how her hips pressed up into his fingers again and again when he touched her or the way her moans came more easily into their kisses or her fingers clenched on his skin. An ache she was positive was not from his fingers filled her.

Watching her shift against his touches was incredibly rewarding. She pressed into his arms further and moved kisses over his shoulders, his chest, his throat and swallowed beneath the touch of her lips. When his fingers slipped free and let her mind clear slightly, she found herself determined to bring him the same pleasure he showed her. She remembered the way he had guided her fingers and mimicked the motion again now. It satisfied her to see Robb shift and gasp under her touch.

Shift and gasp and moan he did. He could hardly believe the sounds were from him, but also didn’t have the presence of mind to question them either. It was so much more potent than his own touch. Perhaps that was why he recognized that feeling of his balls tightening too late (and much faster than if he had been alone.) Robb hissed and clenched his teeth, trying to keep himself under control, but it did no good and he spent himself in her hand with a muttered, “Ah.. Dammit!” And a blush that spread across his cheeks. “Sorry.” He managed after his breathing had become slightly less labored. Clearly, he ought to have taken Theon’s advice to hand — literally — as short lived as he had been. It was no more than the green boy he was, but he still wanted to be more for her.

“No.. Don’t be sorry,” Roslin said, swiping her messy fingers on the sheet — not like it mustn’t needs be washed anyway and she wasn’t sure what else to do.

“That… wasn’t supposed to happen yet.” Robb mumbled, the redness in his cheeks only growing, but Roslin only kissed him.

“But you… liked it?”

Robb nodded fast. “Yes. And you.. You’ve liked…”

“Yes. Which is what matters.”

“I.. Yes but it’ll… take a while before it.. I.. It takes time in between…” And, now, his seed spent, he felt a rather unimpressive specimen indeed with his softened cock, showing himself for the green boy he was. (‘Fool! Why didn’t you listen to Theon when he said to…’).

Nonetheless, if Roslin was deterred, she didn’t show it. “We have a whole night. That’s enough time?” she affirmed.

“Yes,” And he caught the back of her neck and drew her mouth to his, relieved that at least she didn’t seem bothered by his proving to be just like the green boy he was but had hoped to be more than. His embarrassment soon died in the heat of their kisses though. Nothing, Robb was realizing, was stronger than the sensations their lips and tongues could make when they met. He knew he could spend an entire night, many nights mayhaps, just enjoying her mouth under his and her fingers knotted in his hair as they were now.

Robb’s lips slipped from her own and moved to press warmly down her neck and over her throat. There was something nice indeed about the feel of her throat vibrating with gasps beneath his lips. The trail of his mouth paused at her collar bone and pressed kisses at its point. He explored her body with both sliding hands and warm fingers but also with his lips and tongue. His mouth pressed a burning trail down the center of her chest. The gasp caught in her throat for a second but then came free as she felt his fingers against her hip while his lips explored the swell of her breast. Then, his other hand slid from her hip to caress her soft curves. Her back arched toward him as his tongue and lips brushed against the peak of one curve while his fingers circled the other. She felt almost as if she was floating rather than stuck to the bed.

His mouth moved along her stomach, ghosting her navel and his fingers sliding along her hip again. She didn’t question him both because it felt good and because she wasn’t sure words would come as he pressed his lips still lower into the curls between her legs and then the heat between. Slowly, he explored with his lips and tongue what first he had with gentle fingers. Roslin’s fingers were anything but gentle as she clenched the linens with as much force as she could as Robb’s tongue brushed the sensitive place he found before and his name and a soft moan spilled from her lips. She wondered if her body tasted strangely to him. A blush heated her cheeks as she thought she would like to know how more than his mouth tasted. And when his tongue darted out against that sensitive place she moaned wantonly and arched her hips up toward him.

She felt him slip an arm around her waist, drawing her to him while his lips explored further and his tongue delved into warm wetness, pressed hesitantly against her opening. His lips were glistening from her when he lifted his chin to meet her gaze, as if he needed to reassure himself that her gasps and whimpers were for the positive — Gods knew they were! Roslin could have never imagined her body could have been made to feel this way. An ache built somewhere inside her that throbbed both with her heartbeat and when Robb’s tongue brushed her most sensitive areas. Somehow, it felt as if she needed him to quench it, that nothing else would do. Her mind slipped between memories of that day and then was wrenched back to the moment every time his kisses or the tip of his tongue slid between her folds and his fingers tightened against her lower back and hip where he held her. Later, Robb would learn that if he kept on he would be able to bring her to her own pleasure just the way Theon bragged about doing with girls. He was still too green to realize he shouldn’t stop.

Their bodies seemed to mirror each other in understanding as his lips found hers once more and his body settled atop hers, though he tried to keep most of his weight to his knees as he didn’t want to crush her. “Stop me if I hurt you.” His fingers curved around her cheek in a tender touch for a moment. His forehead pressed to hers for a moment and his lips brushed hers once more.

There was much more pressure than he’d expected, as if he was trying to press inside something that had no room for him — until he made it so anyway. Tight and hot and so much better than the fingers of his fist when he was alone while he stifled his gasps into a pillow for certain. Senses accosted him. All of this to realize he was barely inside her at all.

“I think you have to be less…”

Oh. More pressure and he felt something give. Maybe only because he had been aware it would, was waiting for it.

Roslin hissed and bit her lip. Robb froze, blue eyes flashing to hers. It probably would have gone easier if he hadn’t hesitated half so much. His fingers were soft on her cheek again.

“Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. And when he was finally fully in her properly both were gasping from some combination of exertion and pleasure. Something bloomed and spread through her lower stomach it felt like. It hadn’t hurt as much as she expected — or at least not the way she had expected. There was a sharp ache for a moment and then only a dull but persistent tinge with a lot of pressure. But she found when she stopped holding her breath, it helped a good deal. The first time he moved was almost an accident as he tried to shift his weight, but it brought the both of them a soft gasp. Yes. That was good. It was very good.

His mouth found hers, seeking the familiarity they had already begun to find in their kisses. He realized even more now why he’d been given the instructions he’d failed to follow. If he hadn’t, this would barely have lasted a second. The very slightest movement either made sent spasms of pleasure ricocheting all the way up his spine. The vague memory every man has of trying to use his fist for this while conjuring up imaginings would have made him laugh even now. Robb moved when she urged him and more spasms of sheer pleasure slid their way all along his spine and heat threaded through his belly.

At first, they weren’t quite sure how to move together, but Roslin’s instincts told her to lift her hips to meet his in response when he moved. _Oh Gods_. Despite pressure and slight discomfort, the sensation of moving together was like something delicious and forbidden. Instinctually, she parted her legs more and drew him closer, clenching firm hands around the back of his shoulders. Her movement caused him to settle deeper inside her and she let out another gasp of mingled discomfort and pleasure. One of her hands stayed on his back while the other moved to knot in his hair. They kissed, but their lips slipped while gasps and soft moans escaped as their bodies finally found a rhythm together, rocking against one another again and again. The deep burning ache that had begun with his fingers finally felt satiated — as if her body had been craving him and now had what it wanted, what it needed. His name slipped between her lips and she felt Robb shudder in return or else from the touch of her hands, the journey of them across his back while they moved.

It felt not long enough and Robb wanted more even before the familiar clenching below his stomach reminded him he wouldn’t last as long as either of them wanted. His control was fading and his thrusts became slightly more erratic now, but her fingers just laced deeper into his skin leaving bruises the shape of her fingers that would somehow be a mark of pride in the days that followed before they faded (though constant replacement of her fingers in those same places made them last longer than they might have too…) The way he moved faster now caused pulses of pleasure and warmth and Roslin found herself moaning his name softly into his heated skin, but she knew he heard and he responded with her name on his lips in kind. He tensed above her for a second. She felt something seem to contract in him and then there was a rush of sudden heat that flared between them, wet and sticky and wonderful before they were a tangle of limbs and spent, gasping bodies.

It was a long time before either could move or even wanted to. At first, he would have rolled off her, but she kept him there, stopping him before he could. “I want you in my arms a little longer.” She breathed, slipping her fingers through his sweat, soaked curls, to which he could only nod.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No.” And she loved him for it. He had been soft and gentle and sweet.

“We should rest. Tomorrow will be long,” she reasoned.

It seemed they both knew without speaking it that he would never leave her behind here. Not now. She would have despaired if he had. But there was something in her voice that was wistful when she spoke of rest and his lips found her ear and Roslin shuddered delightedly when he whispered “No.” It was a tone that made anticipation race up her spine all over again.

&&

Eventually, sleep must have claimed them, because Robb could remember stirring and half waking and feeling the warm weight of Roslin in his arms and the scent of her hair that smelled like wildflowers and flowed over his shoulders. He shifted, half believing it all to have been a dream, but she stayed in his arms and sleep re-claimed him with the pleasant knowledge that that had been far too wonderful to have been only dreamt.

When he woke more properly sometime near dawn as the first hints of early grey touched the sky, though, Roslin wasn’t in his arms any longer. Their furs were half off in the floor and he realized the cold must have been what woke him and sat up, yawning and stretching. He did not know what time Roslin normally woke and was a little sad she was up before him keeping him from being able to wake with her beside him as he had done at some point in the night. That said, it was perhaps fortunate she had risen if the light was really as far as he thought it might be. He would absolutely need (another) bath before he could be suitable to dress and they needed to march as early as possible.

Robb stretched again and finally found his way out of bed. He’d likely have been more tempted to stay if all the warmth hadn’t been spilled on the floor where the furs and blankets had gone. He went across the room to wash his face at the basin and saw something out of the corner of his eye. Fresh clothes were folded for him on the trunk at the end of the bed — far neater than any squire could have done (and that was if Olyvar had been particularly willing to risk seeing the results of his sister’s bedding to come into the room and find clothes to fold to begin with. Robb judged that to be unlikely) — only women folded clothes that neatly. _Wives_ folded clothes that neatly. A warmth spread through Robb’s chest.

Laying across the folded clothes was a sprig of white heather. It made his throat feel thick and a smile spread across his lips at the same moment. It was a tradition to put white heather in one’s helm or armor or wrapped around the hilt of a sword to bring luck and protection in battle.That was a tradition in the North dating back to the Age of Heroes. Brides in the North also never failed to have a sprig of white heather in their bouquet. Robb could only wonder how early Roslin had gotten up and how far she might have had to wander to find white heather given its purple variation was the majority of what Robb had seen this far South. He lifted the flower and touched its blooms with the delicacy he would have touched her cheek or hair.

Robb hid the worst of the mess from the previous night before he summoned for a bath and found that Olyvar arrived with it bringing food to break his fast and Grey Wind at his heels. The direwolf pressed against Robb’s side and nudged him to get attention and a good morning rub. He was not accustomed to being left out of Robb’s chambers at night. “I see he didn’t eat you,” Robb pointed out as he stuffed a piece of fried bread into his mouth.

“No. I mean, I suppose it was a close thing a time or two,” Olyvar grinned. “But I think we’ve managed to become friends. Though not quite as good friends as you’ve become with my sister.”

Robb choked on tea he had been drinking and stared at Olyvar. “Theon’s rubbed off on you already,” He finally managed.

“He’s got a way about him of doing that. I know you… were good to her. And I… well, thank you.”

Robb smiled slightly. “You’re welcome. She’s…”

“Fine. Very happy. Roslin likes the morning. She’s always up early. Has been running all over the castle saying goodbyes. Persuading Father to let her take Maiden with her. Not that that ought to be hard. She’s always been his favorite.” But he said it with a good natured grin.

&&

When, at last, everyone was made ready to leave, Robb brought Night Raider to the front of the column of men. Lord Walder was watching them from his litter and Roslin was hugging him goodbye rather fiercely. There had to be some good, Robb decided, in a man whose daughter loved him so dearly — perverse though he might be.

Though Maiden was saddled and waiting for her, when Roslin returned Robb heard ribald, joking suggestions before she could mount that she ought to ride double with him. The suggestions were coming, vociferously, from the Greatjon, Theon, and the rest of the usual crowd of malcontents. He couldn’t help his face going red. He had specifically avoided being cornered alone with Theon or the rest of the men who enjoyed teasing him so mercilessly, but that had clearly not been enough. He had to admit that the situation was somewhat humorous even so.

“Married her to pay your toll, so across with you she has to go!”

Robb could only sigh as he knew he wasn’t going to get out of it with more people taking up the chant and even Lord Walder (not so surprising) joining in. Finally, he surrendered to the demands and leaned down to lift Roslin up in front of him which garnered a raucous cheer. And a second when he leaned to kiss her cheek gently.

“Thank you for the good luck, though I think you’re the only good luck I need.” He whispered to her, squeezing her warmly for a moment. “You’re comfortable?”

“Very. I might have to ride with you every day. You’re warm,” Roslin pointed out, snuggling backward against his chest.

Robb signaled and the company started forward across the bridge. He knew it would take them hours to complete the crossing given how numerous they were even now that they were splitting. His reins were loose in one hand, giving the horse his head and his other arm wrapped warmly around Roslin’s waist. With her safe against him, Robb couldn’t help but be slightly less afraid to face all the things he knew were coming; it was he who had somehow gained in his ‘toll’ for the Crossing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: 
> 
> Within the confines of the Red Keep, Sansa makes a surprising and unexpected friend; Cersei asks questions.


	11. Moon Four (Waning Gibbous) -- Mending Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Eddard languishes in the Black Cells, Sansa tries to endure and finds an unanticipated friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Playlist has some minor updates. 
> 
> \- The Jingo, FSMBatman, Joan_of_Arc, Meero619, SkySamuelle, KatMorgan, and Ladeeknight for your kind reviews! You guys keep me writing and my muse fire lit bright. Thanks also for the bookmarks from DeathsFlowergirl, TheGoldenTrio16, Meero619, Maorgan, and Nerdy32. Your love is food for my writer’s soul! 
> 
> \- I suppose at the top of this A/N it’s time to mention that Joffrey is about to head down a very dark path, so be ware of the ‘Joffrey is his own warning tag.’ In the way events are about to unfold as we diverge into AU, he no longer cares to charm Sansa and Cersei is about to lose all control of him. Heads will roll. Possibly literally. 
> 
> \- Some of the ‘reading’ Sansa does are actually heavily borrowed from the various ASOIAF wikis to make them sound more, well, book-like. 
> 
> \- Small tribute — Tommen’s mentioned fighting master is named for Fiore dei Liberi. Check him out. He was wicked awesome (even if Joff doesn’t think so). 
> 
> \- Hopefully you don’t find Tommen and Cersei’s conversation too redundant. I wanted to include it so we have a chance to get into Cersei’s thoughts.

Moon Four (Waning Gibbous)

Mending Wall

* * *

“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.”

— Robert Frost

* * *

_“A skinchanger is a person who can bind themselves to and enter an animal’s mind. The skinchanger can control the animal and experience each of its senses. Skinchangers are associated with the ancient magic of the Old Gods and the blood of the First Men. As such, skinchangers are most commonly found in the Northernmost reaches of Westeros where worship of the Old Gods remains extant._

_The ability most commonly begins with vivid dreams in which the skinchanger sees and perceives the world through the senses of an animal. With practice and training, a skinchanger can develop the ability to enter the mind of an animal at will, though this takes a great deal of time to perfect and can initially be both sporadic and uncontrolled._

_Having a personal connection with an animal makes entering the beast’s mind easier. As such, many skinchangers choose to inhabit dogs due to their close proximity to humans, trusting nature, and superior senses. Wolves can be inhabited similarly to dogs, but this is more difficult given a lasting bond must be forged. Skinchangers who inhabit dogs or wolves are known specifically as wargs.”_

That was where Sansa had lost her nerve the first time.

She had shut the book in fear and even gave it wide physical berth, not going near the table upon which it sat for almost a week. If she hadn’t been hesitant to even touch it, she might have taken it to the library in the Red Keep. However, Sansa was not given freedom of the castle and knew better than to ask to visit the library — or for any favor, really. Moreover, Sansa would not even know where to re-shelve the book. She wasn’t even sure it had come from the library, though from whence else it might have come Sansa had no idea.

Perhaps that was what frightened her rather than the text of the book.

When she had woken, the book was laying at the foot of her bed, just as though she had fallen asleep and left it there.

But she hadn’t. Sansa had never seen such a book in her entire life.

Someone had put that book there. And that meant someone had snuck into her room while she was sleeping while she remained unaware. It also meant someone somehow had some idea about she and her siblings’ strong connection with their direwolves.

Sansa wasn’t sure which of those two things made her more terrified.

_“However, the bond between a skinchanger and the animal exhibits a unique duality in that the animal can exert its will upon the skinchanger as well. While all men know that the stories of skinchangers portray them as bestial, evil creatures who can not only control animals but shapeshift into them in totality, it is more likely that these stories originated from long ago skinchangers who gave in to the will of the creature they inhabited resulting in the current antipathy toward skinchangers known today.”_

She shuddered and remembered the horrible stories of exactly that sort that Old Nan used to tell: the ones Bran and Arya had loved and Sansa had covered her ears during.

Sansa thought of Arya, somewhere in the Red Keep. Arya would have loved the book and certainly would not have been scared of it like Sansa. But Sansa had no way of sharing the book with Arya. She had barely caught a glimpse of her sister in weeks. Besides, Arya was probably still furious with her. If not for her, Arya would be safely back home in her beloved Winterfell with Bran and Rickon. Now, she wondered if her foolhardiness might keep either of them from ever going home again.

Thinking about Arya caused the book to weigh on her.

Loneliness and missing Lady caused the book to weigh on her even more.

Finally, today she had picked up the book with a determination to read it no matter how much it frightened her. If this was the only way she could connect with Lady, her fear was a small price to pay.

_“The author would be remiss not to point out that skinchanging and shapeshifting are, indeed, not the same. While the skinchanger’s mind inhabits the skin of an animal, his own human skin remains behind in a comatose state until his consciousness returns to his own body._

_If a skinchanger’s human body is killed while he is controlling the mind of an animal, part of his consciousness will survive inside the animal. It is not well understood if such an ability exists in opposite form. However, such a concept does not, to the author, seem impossible given the dual nature of the connection and the animal’s ability to influence the skinchanger’s actions in return. A skinchanger can experience many deaths while in another body. It is only when the person’s human body dies that ‘true death’ occurs.”_

‘So, if I die Lady is gone forever?’

_“In fact, it is possible for a skinchanger to live a type of ‘second life’ inside the mind of an animal he controls. However, such a life is believed by some to be a half-life as the skinchanger’s human memory slowly fades until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains. It must also be cautioned that it is traumatic if an animal is killed whilst its mind is inhabited by a skinchanger. Accounts of such experiences are, understandably rare, but it is believed the experience of death can drive the skinchanger mad before death forces him from the body.”_

The text was incredibly old and written in such ancient calligraphy that it was difficult to make out the words and even more difficult to understand their meaning. Where had it even come from?

Steps in the corridor caused Sansa to freeze mid-paragraph and shut the book. She was on her feet in an instant and had shoved the book beneath her mattress, heart pounding in a telltale way. Sansa had never been good at fibbing.

“Let me go! Ow! It hurts!”

“Let me go! It hurts! Oh Please!”

The first voice was high and mocking, filled with contempt. And Sansa recognized it immediately. It haunted her nightmares far too often.

The second voice was small, tremulous, and choked with tears.

“Oh, does the ickle baby want his milk and nom-noms too?”

“Stop! You’re going to ruin my breeches and then mother will be angry!”

“Oh my, my, we wouldn’t want dear Mother to be angry with us, would we? Your breeches will only be ruined if you piss them, crybaby. It’s just a little cut! They’re barely torn! And Gods knows someone needs to show you how to be a man, little brother!”

“But it _does_ hurt, Joff! Ouch! Please stop! Why do I have to fight with you anyway? You aren’t Ser Fiore!”

Tommen’s small voice was full of misery and pain.

“Ser Fiore — The Flower of Battle they call him! What a joke! Even his name sounds stupid. I can’t decide if that or the Knight of Flowers is worse. Oh, or that stupid Syrio Forel oaf. Thank the Gods I put his head on a spike. Do you think the baby Stark cried when she found out? She said he was her dancing master. As if anyone would ever want to dance with her. She’s got a face like a horse!”

Sansa’s cheeks reddened in fury and embarrassment both. How many times had she and Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel called Arya ‘Arya Horseface.’ She wasn’t proud of it. In hindsight, she thought it probably had hurt her sister’s feelings far more than Sansa had intended, but it was even worse to hear Joffrey call Arya that. Arya had never asked for any of this. And the bile that rose in her throat when she thought about those heads…

“Please Joff! No! OW!”

There was the sound of a slap along with a little boy’s cry of pain.

Sansa had sidled along the room until she could watch the two boys through the crack by the door hinge without being seen herself. Tommen’s breeches were more than ‘barely torn’ — they were completely bloody at the knee and Tommen was twisting desperately in Joffrey’s grasp as he tried to free himself, but Joffrey had him by the arm in an iron-looking grip. A blunted practice sword was in his free hand.

‘If the Gods are good someone will come and help.’ Sansa thought.

Yet, somehow, no one heard and no one came and the Gods probably didn’t exist.

By this point, Sansa realized the empty flagon for drinking water was in her hand. She wasn’t even sure how it had gotten there. She didn’t remember going to pick it up but she must have. Her fingers tensed around it uncomfortably. What did she even think to do with it? Throw it at Joffrey? Even the mere thought of his retaliation was enough to make Sansa shudder. Yet, she did not let go of the flagon and her fingers dug deeper into the wood of the door as she watched Tommen struggle to free himself. There was a painful yelp again as fabric ripped further — Tommen’s tunic sleeve because Joff was holding him so forcefully.

Maybe this time the Gods heard because there was a sound in the floor below — in the stairwell maybe — and Joffrey looked around and finally unhanded Tommen who went reeling to the floor and stayed there looking like he was going to be sick. His knee was still bleeding.

“You are such a baby! You’ll never be fit for anything, Tommen.” Joff hissed before he turned on his heel.

Sansa’s heart didn’t stop pounding until she could no longer hear Joffrey’s boots on the stairs. But he was gone. She actually had to think about the effort of slowly leaning down and putting the flagon on the ground, had to think to get her hand to release it.

A small sob from the corridor let her know that Tommen was still there. The little boy was sitting against the wall with his swelling face trying to wipe away tears. He had his injured knee pulled up to his chin, cradling it.

Sansa went to him before she could quite think through the action or talk herself out of it. “Tommen?” Sansa asked softly.

The little boy flinched back in surprise and fear when he realized he was no longer alone. He paused, seeing that it was only Sansa and seemed to be trying to decide whether to run away from her or not. He looked between her and his knee with a fearful expression.

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked him softly, kneeling down beside him.

Tommen let out another sob and shook his head.

“May I look at it? I won’t touch it, I promise. I just want to look at it,” Her voice was soft and soothing.

Tommen hesitated and looked up at her for a long moment before he finally nodded and slowly extended his leg for her examination. Without touching it, Sansa could not see how deep the cut was, but the breeches were certainly finished. The huge hole across the knee would be good for nothing but fool’s motley at best. Sansa could see both of her little brothers’ faces in Tommen so much just then even though they bore no physical resemblance.

“Why don’t you come with me and let me see if I can make it feel better?” Sansa offered. What was she doing? Cersei would find out or, worse, Joff would come back and catch her here.

Tommen sniffled and took a deep breath before he nodded at last. “It really hurts.” He whispered.

“I’m not surprised. It looks like quite a cut.” Sansa said, her voice gentle, just the way she’d have talked to Bran or Rickon.

Carefully, she helped Tommen to his feet and wrapped a hesitant arm around his waist to help him move the few steps back to her chambers since he was limping a lot on the hurt knee. Tommen was still crying a little when they entered her chambers, but the worst of the tears seemed to have abated at this point.

She led Tommen across the room to where a small table sat by the window. The best light was there. Carefully, Sansa put her hands under his arms and lifted him onto the table. It was a heft. Tommen wasn’t a big boy, but he was tall and Sansa had not fully regained her strength. Fortunately, she managed to settle him on the table in the light. He winced, but otherwise did not protest, seeming to have accepted her help whatever that might entail.

“Will it hurt?” He asked, biting his lip.

“No more than it already does.” Sansa pointed out, though gently.

“What are you going to do with those? You aren’t going to cut my leg off are you?” Tommen asked, alarmed as he realized Sansa had her sewing scissors in hand.

“No. I’m just going trim your breeches so I can take care of your knee.”

Tommen shivered but nodded his consent and Sansa went to work, carefully sliding the scissors along the seam of the fabric until it fell away altogether and landed in the floor leaving Tommen’s leg exposed to just above his knee. Then, with the better light from the window, Sansa examined the bloody gash, though she still did not touch it as it looked very painful indeed.

“How bad is it?” Tommen asked with all the grim determination of a soldier asking a field healer if he would lose his leg entirely.

His somber expression might have made her laugh if he didn’t look so miserable.

“Not so bad. It doesn’t need to be sewn up.” Though Sansa had to admit it was quite a nasty cut.

Tommen smiled weakly.

“How did this happen?”

Tommen shied away from her and ducked his head, so Sansa backpedaled.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” She could, for the most part, put the clues together. More than likely, Joffrey had decided to take it upon himself to teach Tommen more skills while the Red Keep’s Master at Arms was doing something else. Then, it hadn’t gone well. Tommen had gotten hurt and had tried to escape, but Joffrey had chased him into Maegor’s instead.

Sansa carefully placed the water basin on the table beside Tommen and poured some water into it. She retrieved a clean shift from her trunk. She gave it a starting snip with her scissors and then ripped it cleanly. Tommen’s green eyes widened in surprise. “Whoa! How did you do that?” He asked.

Sansa couldn’t resist a slight smile. “Just fond a seam and ripped with the grain of the fabric.” Tommen looked confused and Sansa found herself unable to quite explain exactly how it worked to him. The idea of not knowing how to rip fabric accurately was probably as foreign to Sansa as knowing how to do it was to Tommen.

“You must be very strong.”

Sansa’s lips twitched even though she tried to keep them from it. “Not particularly. I’m just used to fabric.” She continued ripping the shift until she had several long strips suitable to clean and bind up Tommen’s cut knee.

She folded one of the strips into a square and then dipped it in the water and then began to dab it very gently against Tommen’s knee. “If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?”

Tommen scrunched his face in thought. “Anywhere?”

“Mm hm.”

“But.. What if I want to go lots of places?”

“Well, where is the first place you would go on your list of places?”

“Hmm… I would go to the Wall.”

Sansa almost dropped the cloth she was cleaning Tommen’s knee with she was so surprised. “The Wall?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen snow except in paintings or ice except the kind they keep in blocks in the ice house, but those are only small blocks. I hoped there would be snow at Winterfell when we visited, but there wasn’t any. Besides, the wall is _seven hundred_ feet high and a hundred leagues long. A dozen mounted knights can ride at the top — that’s as wide as the Kingsroad! It has 19 whole castles to guard it, though only 3 are garrisoned. They say that the Wall can be all kinds of colors, blue like crystal in the sunlight. And on sunny days apparently the wall ‘weeps’ And there are supposedly tunnels through the wall some places that have murder holes in them!” Tommen was talking animatedly now and no longer seemed shy. “Do you think the murder holes and tunnels are true?”

Sansa chuckled slightly. Tommen was all boy. “I don’t know. My brother Jon would.” There was a kind of almost-warmth there when she thought of Jon now that had never existed before. Once again, guilt nagged at her for how she had been cold to him sometimes, just as it nagged at her for having been mean to Arya or impatient with her even though Sansa was older.

“You have another brother?”

“Technically a half brother. Jon Snow. He’s a man of the Night’s Watch at Castle Black.”

Tommen looked at her as if she was a legend rather than the sister of a bastard. “Wow.” The boy was quiet for a minute and then continued doggedly. It was clear that this had been a topic of interest to him for a while, but Sansa was willing to bet he simply hadn’t found anyone in the South who wanted to listen to facts about the Wall.

“The myths say that there are old spells woven into the Wall to make it strong and keep magical creatures from being able to pass it. Mother says those are just stories, but what if they _were_ real? How would you ever know if you don’t see it for yourself?” Tommen paused before he went on. “What kinds of magical creatures can’t pass the Wall?”

Sansa could have chuckled. Yes, Tommen _was _quite like Bran.

She lowered her voice into her best imitation of Old Nan — though it wasn’t a very good one, it only served to make Tommen laugh — and began. “The Wall was built to defend the realms of the First Men. Back then, the First Men fought against the Children of the Forest.They fought until they were able to come up with a peace agreement they called the Pact. The Pact gave the deep woods to the Children of the Forest and made the First Men stop cutting down Weirwood trees. In exchange, the First Men got to lay claim to the rest of Westeros. After that, four thousand years of friendship and peace passed. The Age of Heroes. Eventually, the First Men began to worship the Children’s Northron Gods and the children taught them how to use Ravens. Back then, though, the ravens could actually speak the words. But then the Long Night came. There was an entire generation of winter. And in the darkness something ominous, dark, and dangerous was forming.”

“What was it?” Tommen whispered, green eyes shining with curiosity and delight at the storytelling.

“The Others.” Sansa’s voice was just as low and mysterious. For a moment she had forgotten where she was. She was back at Winterfell with her siblings listening to Old Nan tell this tale.

“What are ‘the others’? I hear people swear that way ‘May the Others take them.’”

“‘Dead things,’ Old Nan says. Demons of ice and snow. But according to the legends they’re ethereal, even beautiful. They wield swords of crystal Some say they ride giant ice spiders. They supposedly leave no footprints. They hate every creature with hot blood in its veins — again according to Old Nan. The Others can re-animate the dead. Some think maybe they can even control them.”

Tommen’s eyes were wide as trenchers. “I think it’s a good thing that the Others can’t come across the Wall.”

Sansa nodded, “Yes. Exactly.”

She smiled at him and gestured to his knee. “All better.”

Sure enough, Tommen realized his knee was clean and neatly bandaged and didn’t even hurt any longer. “How did you do that? I didn’t even feel it!”

“It’s a harder life up North — rougher. We all have to learn some things about how to survive. I suppose the skills come in handy to patch up errant princes.”

Tommen giggled. “I like you Lady Sansa.”

Sansa felt flustered and confused. She didn’t know how she was ‘supposed’ to respond anymore. She managed rather weakly, “I like you too.” And found that it was true. She helped Tommen hop down from the table.

“Why haven’t I ever heard any of these stories?”

Sansa smiled a bit. “They’re Northron stories. Silly and antiquated by Southron thinking — just scary nursery tales. Even in the North, I don’t know that anyone has ever seen such a thing as an ‘Other’ outside of the old stories. If they ever did, they’re not alive now or for thousands of years. Mainly now the Wall is just to protect Westeros from the Wildlings.”

“Well, I like Northron stories.” Tommen finally decided. “Can you tell me more of them?”

“Sometime perhaps.” Sansa said, noncommittally. She had likely said far too much already. If Tommen went back to his mother repeating stories of The Wall, Others, and the Long Night, Sansa was sure to be in trouble.

“You should go now, before you’re missed too much.”

“Probably. Do you think Joff’s gone now?”

“Likely. We’ve been here a good long time.”

Tommen paused at the door. Sansa noted with satisfaction that he was barely limping on the sore leg.

“Do you think it’s true?”

“Is what true?”

“The magic spells in the wall.”

“Hm..” Sansa would have said unequivocally no even six months before. That was before Lady had saved her father. Now, she wasn’t sure. If one kind of magic existed, who was to say all kinds of magic didn’t also exist? “Perhaps.” She finally allowed. “But magic is only magical when you can’t truly understand it.”

“Do you think your brother Jon Snow would tell me more about the Wall? If I wrote to him?My writing is quite good now.”

“I… I’m not sure.” Sansa said. “I haven’t talked to him in a long time. Not since we came to King’s Landing.” Hopefully Tommen would forget about the idea. Sansa could only begin to imagine all the ways this could go painfully wrong. As sweet as Tommen was, her actions had perhaps been to her detriment.

Tommen just smiled, not seeming to mind her uncertainty. “I should go now. Thanks for fixing my knee.”

* * *

Tommen found that once he had considered it, he very much liked the idea of writing to Lady Sansa’s brother Jon Snow who was a man of the Night’s Watch. In fact, he decided he would do just that.

Tommen had first discovered his interest in the Wall during lessons when he had read _Wonders Made by Man_ and its companion piece _Wonders of Nature_ by the famous traveler Lomas Longstrider. Tommen was a voracious reader, but just as any boy his age, things like adventure appealed to him. This was particularly true because there were little and less chances to have _proper_ adventures within the Red Keep. The journey to Winterfell last year had given Tommen a taste of what it might be like to have a _proper_ adventure, and he had decided he would have one. Somehow.

He also thought that the men of the Night’s Watch must be both brave and skilled — like Uncle Jaime, Ser Barristan, and the rest of the Kingsguard — except that they wore black instead of white. And no matter what Joffrey said, Tommen thought one day he would very much like to be a knight. He would need to improve, though. Bran Stark had beaten him when they sparred. Since, he had become more dedicated in his practice with Ser Fiore. Simply put, Tommen had never before been outside the protective confines of King’s Landing, and his first experience gave him a taste for more.

However, no one was particularly interested in talking to him about any of the Nine Wonders. Usually, Mother would talk to him about anything he wanted, but she had been very busy as of late, and he felt guilty bothering her, for she had very important duties now that she was Queen Regent. Then, he might have gone to Uncle Tyrion or Uncle Jaime, but both of them were gone. Uncle Tyrion was a prisoner of the Starks. At first, that had made him quite afraid of Lady Sansa, but she had been kind to him to fix his knee and talk to him about The Wall. No one else did things like that except Mother. Uncle Jaime was away fighting the War, so Tommen could not talk to him. Plus, everyone else seemed to find the Wall (and all the other Nine Wonders) very dull indeed. Tommen could not understand that. How could they think such wondrous things to be dull?

Tommen also felt very lonely indeed these days. But he knew that his loneliness was not nearly so important as things like the War, and so he must act like a man grown. After all, he was about to have seen eight name days. Even Myrcella, with whom he usually spent so much time, seemed busy more often now with her Septa and her own lessons. So, there was no one for Tommen to play with any longer. Often enough, he spent his time holed up in the library with books. Uncle Tyrion had inspired a love of books in him when he was a small boy, giving him all sorts of interesting volumes. But even books could only be a companion for so long, and Tommen was afraid to have another cat.

Every pet he had had, Joffrey had done something horrible to. Tommen did not understand why Joffrey must be so beastly. People would like him more if he was nicer and not a bully. But he did not seem to care. Tommen had told him that once when they were having a dreadful row. Joffrey had told him imperiously that he was a King now and that it was better to be feared than loved. But Tommen wasn’t sure why Joffrey needed to be mean to _him_. Lately, Tommen and Myrcella had talked of it and both admitted they had actually started to be quite fearful of Joffrey indeed. Today only added another layer of reasons for Tommen to want to avoid his older brother at all costs.

Tommen’s footsteps guided him to the Red Keep’s ravenry. It was becoming a place he went often. Tommen liked animals, and without a suitable pet of his own, the ravens had been an acceptable enough substitute. They had come to like Tommen because he fed them corn when he went and talked to them in quiet voices and never ruffled their feathers or tried to grab at them. Not to mention, they were at least one animal Joffrey was not able to be beastly to — if only because he never came to the ravenry. That meant Tommen did not have to worry that they would wind up with broken necks like all of his cats had done.

He had been especially fascinated by the White Raven that had come from the Citadel to mark the coming of Autumn. Maester Pycelle had let him see and feed the raven before he placed it safely on board ship for return home. That was how most ravens worked. Smart as they were, most ravens were not able to travel back and forth between two castles. They knew how to fly to a single place and then needed to be transported back by ship or land. As a result, sometimes Tommen did not see some of his favorite ravens for some time after they had been dispatched. However, some, particularly clever ravens were more talented and could return on their own.

The moment Tommen entered the ravenry, a mass of black feathers flew at him, surprising him and making him shout in surprise before it landed on his shoulder and demanded, “Corn!”

“You’re back!” Tommen said delightedly as he recognized the bird from the tiny colored bands around his leg — but also just by its friendly actions. Darkwing, was the name he had given this bird, who was his favorite. Maester Pycelle had just looked at him in wry amusement when Tommen started naming his ravens, but didn’t seem to mind much. He had even taught Tommen about caring for them.

Darkwing, Maester Pycelle said, was a raven as only came once in a century. He knew how to fly to five castles and knew many words besides. Moreover, Maester Pycelle was training him to fly to a sixth castle now as well. Tommen had told Maester Pycelle they ought to try to teach him to fly to Seven for the Seven faces of God. Maester Pycelle said that happened even less than once a century, but they might try it if Tommen was so determined. And when Tommen set his mind to something, he could be very determined indeed — even stubborn.

“Corn!” Darkwing said more insistently and gave Tommen an irritated peck with his beak.

“Ouch! All right, fine. But only if you be nice.”

“Nice,” the raven croaked back at him. And then in something that was probably delight (for a bird) “Corn!” when Tommen fetched a handful of corn kernels from the supply room for Darkwing to eat from his hand. He sat on Tommen’s shoulder very contentedly and ate his corn.

Darkwing, Maester Pycelle said, was eight — just like Tommen nearly was! Ravens could live to be some thirty years old, and Tommen was glad of that. Maester Pycelle kept small bands on the Ravens’ legs that told him which castles they were able to fly to. The band was generally the color of the banner of the house whose castle it was — though sometimes the bands were not updated that regularly. If the house had more than one castle, extra color was added.

Most of Darkwing’s known castles were on the Eastern-to-Central portion of Westeros. Darkwing’s first band was golden and black for house Baratheon with a thin line of red around the top to show that that band belonged to the Red Keep. That was to differentiate from his second band also in Baratheon colors with a thin band of white to show he knew how to fly to Storm’s End, too.

His next band was Red and Black for Dragonstone — an example of a band that Maester Pycelle had not changed over, though maybe he would eventually.

Either way, nowadays Darkwing did not fly to either Dragonstone or Storm’s End since they were the seats of Stannis and Renly who were fighting against them in the war. That was hard for Tommen. He loved his Uncles. He did not like that his family was fighting, but no one asked his opinion.

Then, Darkwing had a band of orange and red for Sunspear. The next was solid black for … Castle Black! Tommen realized with an excited grin. “You could take my letter to Jon Snow, couldn’t you?” The raven cocked its head at him, beady eyes watching as always.

“Corn!” He demanded, almost as if he was working out a ‘fee’ for such a long trip and back.

Tommen giggled and indulged the bird with another handful of corn.

Darkwing’s last, and most recent, band was white and grey for Winterfell. That was the one Maester Pycelle was still training him with. He had started to work on it during their trip North. The training had sort of stopped recently because of the War and Robb Stark, but when Tommen asked Maester Pycelle if he thought Darkwing could find Winterfell the Maester had tugged at his beard and said “Yes. I think. I might be hesitant to try it, but I think.” And so he had gotten his sixth band, but Pycelle had been quite firm in telling Tommen not to send Darkwing to Winterfell until he had approved. Tommen had no reason to write to Winterfell anyway. Now they were enemies. So many enemies made him sad. Why could they not just bend the knee and be done with it?

Tommen moved across to the supply room again and came back with paper, quill, and ink all the while with Darkwing still content to ride on his shoulder. Tommen sat at the table in the center of the large, round room. Normally, he probably would have asked Maester Pycelle for help with any sort of letter — or maybe they would have worked on it in lessons — but the Maester was busy meeting with the Small Council and had been for hours. Mother was shut up in there too, which was how the whole fiasco with Joff had been allowed to get so far in the first place. Tommen looked down at his sore knee and cut breeches and hoped Mother would not be too angry about them. Probably, she would not, but still…

He sat down at the table and began his letter with his very neatest penmanship.

_To Jon Snow,_

_Your sister, Sansa, said that you are a man of the Night’s Watch. It must be very exciting to help protect Westeros. I have read some about the Wall, and it really interests me. Have you read _Wonders Made By Man_ authored by Lomas Longstrider? It talks some about the Wall. I would like to know more about it. If you have time, for I knew you must be very busy with your duties, it would please me much if would you write to me about the Wall. What is life like there? What jobs do you do? Also, are there truly ice tunnels with murder holes in them? What is Castle Black like? How would the wall ever defend us if there were an invasion of Wildlings? Do Others really exist? Are there truly spells in the wall so Others cannot cross it?_

_Respectfully_

_Tommen Baratheon_

_P.S. from Darkwing - You can return me with your letter after I have rested. I know how to find my way home_.

* * *

Mother had finished with the small council meeting by the time Tommen came back from the ravenry. When he went to her solar, she was there writing something. He did not want to interrupt her from her work, so he stood quietly in the doorway for a time just watching his mother. He loved her and she was the most beautiful, smartest woman in the entire world as far as Tommen was concerned. He loved both his mother and his sister quite strongly. He also loved his uncles and his grandfather, even though Lord Tywin intimidated him a good deal. 

Tommen was interrupted from his thoughts when his mother noticed him and immediately put down her quill. “Hello my sweet.” She said, green eyes glowing in true delight. Few things made Cersei as happy as her children.

“Mama!” Tommen said, running across the room with his sore knee forgotten as he wrapped his arms around Cersei and leaned against her chest. Though his eighth nameday was approaching, his mother’s arms and her hugs were still a place he so liked to be. Cersei made much over him, hugging him in return and pressing a gentle kiss to his golden hair.

“Would you like to have dinner with me? Myrcella is busy with her septa.” And Cersei was not sure where Joff was. It was a bit worrisome to her that she did not have the energy to care. She knew that with the Hound at his heels on a near-constant basis, he could not be in any particular danger.

Tommen nodded excitedly. He did not always have time to spend all alone with his mother — especially lately now that she had become so busy.

It was when Cersei finally pulled away that she noticed her son’s cut breeches and bandaged knee. “Oh my sweet! What happened?” Cersei asked, immediately sinking to the floor with her skirts spread around her, always graceful, to look at her youngest’s wound. Carefully she unwrapped it with very gentle fingers. He had a long puffy red cut on his knee — though it had been expertly cleaned and there was no sign of infection, only irritation. Moreover, it had been bandaged perfectly.

Tommen looked at the floor and shifted uncomfortable under his mother’s gaze. Often enough, if he admitted Joffrey had done something beastly, Joffrey would somehow find out about it and become so angry with Tommen. It was always worse then.

However, Cersei had started to recognize the pattern and was at a loss as to what to do to change it. It seemed like every time she raised the matter with Joffrey, he would find some convincing way to avoid the accusation. Joffrey’s unkindnesses toward Myrcella and Tommen bothered Cersei more than she could explain, but each time she tried to curb the behaviors, they would just crop up again. It made her feel, as she had admitted to Jaime, a failure as a parent. Jaime insisted the failure had not been hers, but Cersei had her doubts. Surely, surely, she had done something wrong with Joffrey. She had coddled and spoiled him, but she coddled and spoiled Myrcella and Tommen as well and they were lovely children. But she couldn’t think about that now. She needed to think of her youngest who was right in front of her.

“Does it still hurt? Perhaps we should have Grand Maester Pycelle look at it.”

Tommen shook his head. “It’s sore, but it feels much better.” Tommen had always been a rather brave lad about injuries.

“Who fixed up the bandages for you?” Cersei asked, curiously. If it had not been Maester Pycelle, who amongst the keep had seen to her son’s needs? However, the answer she got was perhaps the last she would have expected.

“Lady Sansa.” Tommen said, seemingly unconcerned.

Cersei froze as all manner of thoughts ran through her head. When had Sansa Stark had access to her son? How had that been allowed to happen? Had the Stark girl found some way to hurt Tommen? Though that did not entirely make sense given his knee looked in excellent condition. Well, in as excellent condition as a split open knee can look, she supposed. It made Cersei’s blood cold that the girl had been allowed to be around her son. However, she did her best to stay calm so that Tommen would not see her fear.

“My sweet, was she good to you? She didn’t hurt you?”

“Oh no! She did not hurt me at all!” Tommen said, firmly. “She was very kind and did not even hurt the least little bit while she was fixing my knee, and we had such an interesting conversation as she did.”

Like a hound on the scent in a hunt, Cersei continued. “What did you talk about with her, my Love?” She guided Tommen over to the divan across the room by the tea table and in the waning light of the sunset so she could have a better look at the knee.

“Mostly about the North.”

Cersei seized on it. So the girl thought to use her son as a pawn in this Game. That, Cersei would never allow. Myrcella and Tommen would not be brought into this mess even if it cost every bone in her body to assure it. “Can you remember more?”

Tommen shrugged slightly, unsure why his mother was so interested in the topic. Nonetheless, he did his best to remember the specifics of the conversation. “Mm. She took me back to her room because we were in the hall outside.”

“Wait. What were you even doing in that part of Maegor’s?” Cersei asked, confused and bothered.

“Trying to get away from Joffrey.” Tommen mumbled almost below her hearing distance, but Cersei did hear and her frustration grew, though she didn’t let her youngest see it. She was going to have to speak with Joffrey very firmly, and soon.

“All right, and then what happened.”

Tommen shrugged. “She just took me back to her room and cleaned off the cut and bandaged it all up. “Are you horribly upset about the breeches?”

“No, I’m not bothered about the breeches at all. I’m just glad you are well.”

“When she bandaged it, she ripped a piece of fabric right in two, and it was perfectly straight!”

Cersei laughed slightly. “That isn’t so difficult, though I’m glad it amused you. But, Tommen, can you remember more about the specific conversation?” Sansa, Cersei realized, would be a fool to outright hurt her son, but that didn’t mean she might not have, or be intending to, use him in some other way. Cersei would be paying the girl a visit before the night was out, she decided. House Lannister’s sigil was a lion and Cersei was just as protective of her ‘cubs’ as any lioness.

“She asked me if I could go anywhere in the world where I would want to travel.”

For a second, Cersei froze again. Did Sansa intend to try to take her son and run away somewhere? Run away to the North and hold Tommen hostage with her family? Cersei had to force herself to remain calm and hear the rest of Tommen’s story rather than go storming off to demand answers.

“And, of course, I told her I would want to go to the Wall.”

Well, that wasn’t something new. Her son had been interested in the Wall ever since he read about the Nine Wonders in his lessons. He had also been incredibly disappointed when there was not snow on their visit North. It worried her still. His interest would only make it easier for Sansa to use him in some way. Cersei was struggling to disabuse herself of the notion that the conversation had been entirely innocuous. Nonetheless, Cersei bade him continue.

Tommen dutifully repeated the conversation as best he could remember it. “I told her that I want to see snow and ice and how tall the Wall is and everything that I read about it that interested me. And she told me her natural born brother Jon Snow was a man of the Night’s Watch.”

Ah there it was. Sansa would use Tommen to get to Jon Snow somehow. The idea that she would try to run away with Tommen to the Wall, mad as it might seem, seriously concerned Cersei. “What did she tell you about Jon Snow?”

Tommen shrugged. “Nothing really. I asked some questions about what the wall was like and if she knew the answers, but she said she didn’t but that her brother would.”

He wasn’t sure why his mother was so interested in the details of his conversation with Lady Sansa. She clearly had not wanted to harm him and had not been mean like he had expected. She was much kinder than Joff. Her gentle grace even reminded Tommen of his own mother in some ways, he now realized.

“I see.”

Tommen continued. “I told her that I read that there are old spells woven into the wall so magical creatures can’t pass and that you said those are just stories. I pointed out that you can’t know if you don’t see it for yourself.”

Cersei shivered slightly. “Yes. Tommen. You must never leave the Red Keep with Lady Sansa.”

Tommen looked at his mother strangely. “All right. But she didn’t ask me to.”

“That’s good. Please, just remember that Tommen. It is very important.”

Tommen nodded. “All right, Mother. I will remember.”

“Good. What else did the two of you say?”

“I asked her what sort of magical creatures can’t pass the Wall. And she told me a story that someone called Old Nan told her. She tried to imitate her, but did not do a very good job. I think she must be an old woman, though. Anyway, she told me about the First Men and the Children of the Forest and how they made a Pact that led to the Age of Heroes. She said eventually the First Men began to worship the Gods the Children did. Mother, are those the weird, creepy Gods from the trees with bloody faces?”

“Yes, love. Their faces aren’t actually bloody. It’s just the color of the sap. They’re called the Old Gods.”

Tommen shuddered slightly. He thought he would prefer to visit the sept in the Red Keep much more, but did not say so, for that would be rude indeed. “She said, then, there was a winter that lasted an entire generation, and that in the winter something dark and dangerous was coming.”

Cersei saw where this was going, and she was not sure she liked it but waited for her son to continue. If he had nightmares…

Tommen lowered his voice and his eyes were all shiny with interest just as they had been when Sansa was telling the story. He was forgetting all about the awkwardness of repeating the conversation to his mother and was just enjoying the tale. “She called them The Others. I asked what they were. People swear ‘May the Others take them.’ All the time.”

“Just don’t you say that.” Cersei admonished with a look. She did not think it appropriate for her young children to _swear_ anything.

“Yes, Mother. I won’t. Anyway, Sansa said that this Old Nan told her that the Others were ‘dead things.’ She said they’re demons of ice and snow but they are supposed to be beautiful. I am not sure how a dead thing can be beautiful.” Tommen imagined the rotting corpses of animals he had, upon rare occasions, seen in the Red Keep before someone found them and removed them. “She said that some say they have swords of crystal, ride giant ice spiders, leave no footprints, and hate everything living.” He lowered his voice naturally. “Some people also say that The Others can re-animate the dead and maybe even control them. I told Lady Sansa it is a good thing that Others cannot come across the wall.”

“It.. Is a good thing. But Others don’t actually exist. You know that right, Tommen? It is just a scary nursery story. Old Nan was likely Lady Sansa’s wet nurse.”

Tommen nodded, but somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered. Maybe the Others _were_ real. “She did say that, even in the North, no one has seen an Other for thousands of years and that the Wall just protects Westeros from the Wildlings.”

“Yes, that much is true.” Cersei allowed.

“Then she was finished with my knee, and I asked her if she thought the magic spells in the Wall were true even if The Others might not be. She said she didn’t know, but magic is only truly magical when you can’t understand it.”

Cersei opened her mouth to respond that ‘magic’ wasn’t real, but then remembered the shape of a great, shining shade of a direwolf leaping over the body of Eddard Stark. She shut her mouth again, and Tommen was speaking once more, not having noticed.

“I asked her if I wrote to Jon Snow if he would tell me more about the Wall. She said she didn’t know, and she hasn’t talked to him since she came to King’s Landing. Then I told her that I should go and thanked her for fixing my knee.”

There it was again, the bastard brother. “Tommen, did Sansa ask you anything about writing to Jon Snow? Did she ask you to write to him or…?”

“No. But I did write him a letter and even sent it!”

“You sent a raven by yourself?” Cersei asked in surprise. “You didn’t ask Grand Maester Pycelle for help?”

Tommen shook his head, “You were all still in Small Council. Besides, I go to the ravenry with him often. I know how to do it.”

Cersei allowed that was true. Tommen had always loved animals. Unfortunately and to Cersei’s worry, Joffrey loved killing animals as much as Tommen loved having pets. And, more unfortunate still, the ones he usually loved killing the most were Tommen’s pets. The thought made her a little ill. She hadn’t told Jaime about that. When Joffrey had been just a small child, smaller even than Tommen now, he had cut open a pregnant cat to see the kittens inside and taken them to show Robert, who had backhanded him so hard he’d knocked out Joff’s front two baby teeth. Cersei had raged. Oh how she had raged. They had fought all night long, and Cersei had told Robert if he ever laid a hand on her son again, she would see him dead. And she had meant it. After that, Robert had never tried disciplining Joffrey again.

These days, she looked back on that happening and fight with a sense of not being sure. Absolutely, Robert could not be allowed to hurt the children, but had she been wrong to focus so much attention on the knocking out of the teeth rather than the sickening event that had wrought the punishment? At the time, she had thought Joffrey was just legitimately curious and did not know better. After all, he had barely been six name days old. However, as more animals turned up dead in the Red Keep and, lately, when Joffrey had begun to torment his siblings to the point they were frightened of him, Cersei had begun to doubt herself and her ignorance of Joffrey’s behaviors.

Cersei shook herself from her thoughts when she realized Tommen was speaking once again. “I know how to send a letter. You write it, then you seal it and put it in the little container and fasten it to the leg of the raven you want to use. And you choose which raven to send based on the bands on the leg. Grand Maester Pycelle has a chart on the wall for the colors, but I’ve memorized the whole thing. Do you want to know some of them?”

Tommen sounded so proud, and so Cersei said, “Of course, my love. Do you know all of the Westerlands?”

“Yes!” Said Tommen Proudly. “They’re almost always just the colors of the houses unless the houses share similar colors. Going from North to South of the major houses in the Westerlands: house Estren is red, green, and white. Banefort is grey and orange. Marbrand is yellow and grey. Westerling is tan and white, Lefford is gold and navy, Farman is Blue, Red, and Yellow which is has to be to differentiate between House Bracken’s yellow and red and Coldwater’s blue and red. Sarsfield is Green and White. Brax is purple and grey. Kenning of Kace is Orange and Black with four suns to differentiate from some of the Dornish houses, Prester is grey and red on white background — to differentiate from Glover, which is only grey and red. Casterly Rock is of course red and gold. Lyden is green with black and white which helps tell it apart from Roote and Tallhart. Sarwyck is red with silver and small black trim. Serret is pale yellow, blue, and green because some other houses have blue and green like Vance of Atranta, Clegane is gold and black with a small dog to show difference from Baratheon. Greenfield is dark green alone. Swyft is pale yellow and black. Last of all, Crakehall is brown and tan and that is where Uncle Jaime was a squire.”

He seemed to do it all in one breath and boggled Cersei’s mind. At one point, Jaime had had to learn all of these castles, the specifics of their banners and sigils — not just colors, and their castle seat, and she had helped him memorize them, but that had been when they were no older than Tommen. “Well done. You have memorized the whole chart haven’t you?”

Tommen nodded with extreme pride. “Yes! And I know most of the Ravens and what bands they have. I started naming them. Maester Pycelle called it ‘ridiculous’ but I don’t think he actually cares. He said to remember that the Ravens aren’t pets. But I remember. I know what he means. Ravens travel long distances and, though they’re better at defending themselves than some birds, they can be attacked or shot down.”

“That’s true,” Cersei agreed.

“But it doesn’t happen often unless they are sent into a war zone. Jon Snow is at Castle Black, so I sent Darkwing.”

“What did you write in your letter, love? You said Lady Sansa doesn’t know about it?”

Tommen shook his head, “No. I sent the letter after I left. Do you think I should tell her?”

“No,” Cersei said firmly. “At least not right now. What did you say in your letter?” Cersei could only hope and pray that the letter contained nothing that would inflame anyone and be eternally grateful that the Wall took no part in conflicts of the realm.

“That I thought it must be exciting to help protect Westeros. Um. I asked if he read _Wonders Made By Man_. I asked what life is like there and what duties he has. I asked if there are really ice tunnels with murder holes. I asked what the Keep is like. I asked how the Wall would defend us if the Wildlings did invade. I asked if Others existed and if there are truly spells in the wall. Oh. And I told him Darkwing knows how to come home on his own so he is not stuck up at the Wall,” Tommen recounted.

Cersei had to admit that her son had done a good job if he was going to write a letter. She just wished it had not been to Jon Snow of all people. Though, she supposed it could be worse. “Tommen, promise me if you get a response that you will let me know right away.” She would be telling Maester Pycelle about this as well.

“All right, Mother.” He said, smiling. And then his stomach rumbled loudly and Cersei could not help but chuckle.

“I suppose that means we have talked enough about the North for one day.” _Enough for a lifetime_. “Shall I ask for some supper to be brought up to us? Perhaps cream cakes for dessert?”

Tommen nodded quickly realizing that he was very hungry indeed after his afternoon adventures.

“Very well. Go and change your breeches and by the time you return, there will be something delicious waiting for you.” Tommen did not need to be told twice as he went scurrying from his mother’s solar.

* * *

Cersei had tucked Tommen into bed herself that night and read to him until he was asleep. Lately, she did not always have the luxury of time to do so, but that night she felt strongly that she needed the time with her youngest.

However, once Tommen was asleep, Cersei strode from his bedchamber with a purposeful step. She was going to speak to Sansa Stark and make sure the girl would not dare to harm her son. Some part of her recognized that it was possible she might be taking some of her frustration at Joffrey out on Sansa, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Sansa was a problem she knew how to deal with, Joffrey was not. Cersei had tried talking with Joff a hundred different ways in the last year or so as things between he and his siblings worsened, and it never helped. Sometimes, it seemed only to serve to make things worse. But Cersei could deal with Sansa Stark.

That was another slight problem Cersei did not like. However, it was politically smart to tieher son to the Key to the North. When Robb Stark died, Sansa could well be the Key to the North. Yes, her brothers would be in the way, but they could be dealt with easily enough. Cersei wished for the hundredth time that Bran Stark had had the decency to die falling out of the tower window. Then again… she had wanted that because she had not wanted him to say something. He swore, apparently, that he remembered nothing and, nonetheless, godsdamn Eddard Stark knew the secret Jaime had tried to murder Bran to protect anyway. That had not worked out so well, had it?

As usual, a yearning sadness crossed Cersei’s heart for a second when she thought about Jaime and the time since she had seen him. They had not had to be apart like this in so long. She had gotten used to having him at her side in King’s Landing. Gods knew he was one of the few things that made her happy here. Yes, Cersei had wanted to be Queen. She had been drunk on the power of it, especially at the beginning. However, she had quickly learned that came with other things she did not enjoy — Robert’s abuses, for one. She had thought it would be easier if he died, but had learned it did not seem to be any easier now that he had. More problems had just arisen to take Robert’s place.

Before long, her feet had carried her to Sansa’s chamber.

She did not bother to have the Red Cloak at the door knock before she swept into the room. Sansa was stronger now and had been moved out of the chambers near Pycelle’s and into something more suitable given that she was still to marry Cersei’s son.

The girl was in a nightshift sitting in the window looking out when Cersei interrupted whatever traitorous thoughts she was likely thinking on. Cersei was pleased to see Sansa jump in alarm; not because she particularly liked torturing people but because it meant the girl was nervous, and that gave Cersei the upper hand in their conversation. All conversations were part of playing the Game of Thrones. If Sansa Stark did not know this, she would soon enough. Contradictory to what others might believe, Cersei did not think Sansa to be as foolish as her son seemed to believe she was. She worried enough about her to believe Sansa might be a threat at least.

“What did you mean with your actions toward my son today?” Cersei demanded, moving to tower over the girl on the window. Sansa suddenly looked much smaller and more frightened than she had from across the room, but Cersei was not of a mind to care. Sansa could potentially have ill-designs on Tommen.

Sansa’s blue eyes were wide, but Cersei did not believe in innocence. She had lived in King’s Landing too long for that. “Speak!” She demanded.

“I.. I did not mean…I did not… No My L.. I mean.. Your Grace.”

“Stop stammering over yourself like a fool and answer me directly.” Cersei was losing her patience as she came nearer and nearer to encountering potential answers to the fears that had kept her taut as a bowstring all evening.

Cersei could see that tears were gathering at the corners of Sansa’s eyes, though the girl was seemingly doing her best not to let them spill over. That was something Cersei could at least respect to some degree. Tears had never held weight with her, just as they had never held weight with her father. But she could respect doing one’s best not to let them come.

Sansa took a deep breath. She had suspected this conversation would come, so she wasn’t sure why she had been taken so off guard now that the Queen was in her bedchamber, staring down at her like something she wanted to crush. “I.. Don’t have.. Any intentions with your son.” Then, she tacked on quickly as she remembered her courtesies “Your Grace.”

“I find that difficult to believe considering he spent all afternoon in your company and now has written a letter to your bastard brother.”

Sansa cringed when she hard Jon called a bastard (another of those new developmentsgrown with her fealty to Jon since the wolf dream). Perhaps it might be true, but she realized now how much it must hurt. Then, Sansa’s mind picked up the last part of Cersei’s demanded responses. “I never… what? He actually … I never asked him to write to Jon Snow, Your Grace. It was his idea.”

“But you knew about it.” Cersei demanded, frustration flooding her.

Sansa quickly shook her head. “No, Your Grace. He suggested he might write to Jon. He asked me if Jon would tell him more about the Wall if he wrote. I… said I didn’t know because I haven’t spoken to Jon since we left Winterfell. Please believe me, Your Grace!”

Cersei stared at Sansa for a long moment, watching her eyes, watching the lines in her face, the pull of her mouth, the anxious flush on her cheeks. It seemed to Cersei that the girl might be telling the truth. Often, Cersei could tell if someone was lying to her. Living in this place had done that well enough. Still, she was far from absolved of the fears that Sansa Stark might have ill intentions toward Tommen. After all, it was not as if they were playing at diplomacy with Sansa’s family.

“Why did you suggest there was even a possibility of this bastard brother of yours returning a letter? You should have dissuaded Tommen from doing such a thing. My children do not need to have any contact with the likes of the men who guard the Wall. I have not yet brought myself to ruin his fantasy that the Wall is filled with dashing knights as it once was. Nonetheless, Tommen does not need to have contact with that lot of rabble — reavers and rapers and thieves.

For just a second, Sansa’s anger flared. “Jon is none of those things!”

“No, he’s only a bastard. Traitorous and dangerous by nature.”

Sansa had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from responding harshly. Maybe most bastards were traitorous and dangerous by nature, but Sansa knew that wasn’t true of Jon Snow.

Sansa’s blue eyes had become as hard as frozen ice as she stared up at Cersei Lannister. She might be able to curb her angry words, but her eyes were as filled with anger as her words were hollow when she spouted her pretty little lies about caring only for Joffrey — Cersei could see that at once, though she had to admit the girl could say nothing else, could she?

Then, unbidden and incredibly unwelcome, her own children’s faces and the conversation she had had with Eddard Stark flooded back to her. Born into any other family and with less secrecy, her own children would bear the disgusting surname “Hill” like all the other Westerlands bastards. Lannisters were above such things just as the Targaryens had been above the laws of incest in marriage, at least her own children, at least according to Cersei. Tommen and Myrcella were sweet and kind and good. They did not have a traitorous bone in their bodies. And Joffrey. Cersei refused to believe that his ill-nature had anything to do with his parentage, elsewise it would have affected Myrcella and Tommen also. Perhaps it had had something to do with how she had raised him, that Cersei could believe. Had she not been fixated on worries of it for near a year now? Nonetheless, the thought stayed her anger if only slightly.

“Did you tell Tommen to write to anyone else? Was it on your behalf?” She felt the need to ask the question multiple ways, to be certain.

“No, Your Grace. I did not believe he would actually write to Jon! Boys of his age…” Sansa stopped, unsure whether to continue. She thought of Bran and his climbing and his belief that he could never fall. “Boys his age come up with lots of notions but it does not mean they follow through with them. I had thought…”

“Thought what?”

“That if I gave him an indirect answer about whether Jon would respond, that he would put the idea out of his head.” Sansa wanted to yell at Cersei and ask her if she believed Sansa to be a complete fool. Why on earth would Sansa encourage Tommen to do something that was likely to get her, Arya, and their father killed? To what end? To write to a brother who could do absolutely nothing to save them? At least there was that grace and she grasped it like a drowning person grasps a log. “Your Grace, Jon is a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“Who takes no part in the wars of men. Yes. How fortunate for you.” Cersei responded drily. It was fortunate. Had Tommen taken it into his mind to write to Robb Stark for instance, the consequences might not have been solely on Sansa Stark’s head. Thank the Gods he had not done that.

Sansa did not break her gaze away from Cersei even though she desperately wanted to.

“And he wrote to no one else?”

“Your Grace, if he wrote letters to anyone else, he did not tell me about them.” Sansa insisted. Her eyes still looked truthful, so Cersei continued.

“And his knee? How did my son happen to be in this part of Maegor’s? Why did you fix his knee? And why did you not tell someone else?”

Sansa took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure and not let herself cringe away from Cersei’s angry tone. “I… he was running from the King, Your Grace. They were… disagreeing.” Sansa could not think how else to put it. She could not call Joffrey a bully or cruel even though he was.

That much Cersei could absolutely believe. “And why here?”

Sansa shook her head, “I don’t know, your Grace. I only heard them in the hallway and watched until Joffrey went away. I thought someone would come to help Tommen, and when they didn’t I thought….”

“You thought you would take the opportunity to harm him while he was alone?”

“No! Truly your Grace. Tommen is a little boy. He reminded me of my little brothers and all the times I.. Have patched up their cuts and bruises. When no one came, I did not want to leave him there crying, so I asked if I could look at his knee. It wasn’t a bad cut and only needed bandaging.” Why hadn’t Sansa gone for someone else? She didn’t know. It probably would have made far more sense than what she had done, which was now clearly only putting her and possibly Arya and her father at greater risk than ever.

Cersei stared at Sansa for a long moment, waiting for any flicker of deceit or dishonesty to cross the girl’s features, but none did. “Perhaps you had no ill intentions. Why were you discussing anything with him — particularly the North?” Somehow, Cersei’s voice was becoming slightly less threatening, slightly less angry, though certainly still holding a good deal of suspicion.

“Your Grace, I only thought to try to distract him while I cleaned and bandaged his knee so it wouldn’t hurt. I asked him if he could travel, where he might want to go. I never thought he would want to go North. And then he kept talking and it was keeping him distracted. I truly did not want to hurt him.”

Cersei had to admit she had used the same tactic plenty of times when she had dealt with her own children’s smaller injuries that far from required a maester’s intervention. And her Aunt Genna had done the same to her as a child. “And the stories about ridiculous Others sure to give him nightmares?”

Sansa’s face flushed. It would come back to that of course. “I… they’re just.. stories Your Grace. Cradle stories,” she paused, then continued. “Tommen asked what sort of creatures could not cross the Wall. He also brought up the magic spells to keep them from crossing and I…”

“Filled in the blanks,” Cersei said. Slowly, the fury seemed to be going out of her bit by bit as she tried to even begin to wrap her mind around the idea that Sansa Stark had truly only meant to be kind to Tommen despite Cersei’s other son treating her horribly. It made no sense. It was too good. People were not that good. Even Jaime and Cersei themselves were, arguably, not that ‘good.’ She did not fool herself on that count, nor was she sure she desired to change it. Being ‘good’ was the kind of thing that got you eaten alive in the Game of Thrones. You win or you die. And Cersei had four very important reasons to live.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“So, I am to believe that you found my son being tormented by my other son, brought him here, mended his knee with no ulterior motive, told him a harmless story, and sent him on his way? You swear that this is the complete truth of it? You have not left out anything? If you have I will find out, and it will go badly for you.”

“Yes, Your Grace. That is all. I have not been dishonest with you. Tommen is only a child, and he is a good boy.”

Cersei stared at the Stark girl for a long minute. “On that much, we can agree.” Cersei’s mouth pursed thoughtfully for a moment before she managed to say what she knew she should.

“You have my thanks.” It was stiff, not a phrase Cersei Lannister was used to saying, clearly. Then, she turned on her heel and left without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s comment on this chapter: “Seven Hells! What am I supposed to do with this?” 
> 
> Coming Next: Tommen tries to help, and Joffrey goes too far even for Tywin to ignore.


	12. Moon Four (Third Quarter) -- These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lessons of a man grown are more painful than Tommen expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Happy Valentine’s and Happy Fanworks day everyone! 
> 
> \- Playlist is updated! Songs that go well with this chapter are: Pompeii, Power is Power, Untitled / How Could This Happen To Me, and Things We Lost In The Fire. 
> 
> \- At the beginning I’ve mentioned it’s the ‘grass moon’ I just saw the names for the 12 moons of the year in a Farmer’s Almanac and thought they were neat, so those names might pop up throughout the story occasionally. 
> 
> \- Of course the scene between Cersei and Joffrey is inspired by S2E1 I had to give him a reason to use his "Don't do it again" quote because that scene was just... too good not to find a way to use here. 
> 
> \- This fic just went over 100k and has 200+ comments and is not even close to complete. I feel probably more loved and inspired than I ever have by a project before. As always, thank you SO much to everyone who reads and reviews. Without you guys, I’d probably have lost interest in this project a long time ago. It’s turning out to be longer and more complex than I’d planned and you guys are the best for continuing to stick with it! Shout outs to: CmdrAdama, SkySamuelle, Joan_Of_Arc, Highflyer, and KatMorgan

A half moon in its third quarter hung above the clearing of rolling grassy hills of Winterfell and the tall, dark trees of the Wolfswood. It was the fourth moon of the year 299 AC — the Grass Moon as it waned in the sky above them to give itself over to the Planting Moon and, if the Gods were good, that name would be apt and once more the ground could be harrowed and planted with one last harvest able to be brought in before Fall turned to Winter.

Lady did not know if that was possible. She was of the North just as her mistress and her pack. Winter was coming and it was more than the words of House Stark. She could feel it within herself, just as the others could. Very soon, the late summer would give way to the thick, cold Autumn snows. This Autumn would not be long and this Winter would be longer than any they had seen for a time. They would be lucky if this Autumn lasted more than a year. She knew this in the same way she knew other, seemingly inexplicable, things.

She lay beneath the boughs of a tall Sentinel tree at the edge of the Wolfswood where she could watch the moon and the hills spread out before her. Her silvery glow was phosphorescent and beautiful in the spilling light of the moon in the dark sky above. The Sentinel had sweet, sticky sap with a unique taste, though it was not unlike honey. Lady lapped demurely at the sap, being sure not to get it even into the odd fur that glowed, that made up her Shade. It was an odd thing indeed. She could lick it. It could bleed. But it was not like normal fur all the same. Nonetheless, she did not want sticky sap on her and was very dainty and took care to avoid this at all costs.

She did not know where the others were tonight. They did not always dream together as they had done that one evening. Nonetheless, she did not feel uneasy and thought the others were all right. Her ears pricked instantly when she heard the snap of a twig. While she had hunted earlier and had a filling meal and was now enjoying the sap from the tree, if some rabbit or other creature was foolish enough to walk right up to her then it would be a shame to waste it. She sensed she no longer needed to eat, but nourishment allowed her to keep a physical shade form longer before she faded.

It was not prey but her mistress! Sansa stepped from the tree line. Lady noticed she still looked a little pale and as if she had lost weight she did not have to lose. Guilt prickled at Lady’s heart. She had done that to her mistress. Nymeria, who was watching, told her just how sick Sansa had been. But then, had she any choice? Only a more solid form would save Lord Eddard and the solidity she needed took far much more energy than Lady usually could draw from her own spirit. Despite her guilt, she rose to her feet and padded over to Sansa.

If her mistress had any such inclination to feel angry with Lady, the direwolf could not sense it in her. Instead, Sansa leaned down just slightly to wrap her arms around Lady. The touch was not the same. It was as if receiving a hug through layers of fabric perhaps, but it was enough. It was more than either had ever thought to have again. Sansa did not have to lean down far. Though Lady was not quite as large as Grey Wind — already up to Robb’s chest — she reached the middle of Sansa’s ribs easily enough — and she was the smallest of their pack. Ghost was the largest and strongest and Lady knew by now his head reached to the very top of Jon’s chest near the top of his arm. She refocused on Sansa hugging her and then did a very unladylike thing and began to lick her mistress all over her face in joy to see her again after over a month apart, her tail bobbing back and forth. If Sansa minded the behavior, though, she gave no inclination and just held Lady all the tighter.

“You saved him. Thank you!” She said, tears already pouring down her cheeks as she stroked Lady’s pelt. Her fingers encountered the place where a hideous scar would always be — a diagonal cut along her right flank from hip to shoulder where Ice had struck her and buried deep past muscle, sinew, and bone. It seemed to be mending after Ghost’s healing licks, though it was still tender and she tensed slightly when Sansa examined it.

“Oh my sweet, beautiful girl. I’m so sorry,” Sansa whispered, careful to barely let her fingers brush over the puffy, irritated scar. It looked to be healing. Then again, how did you tell if an oddly colored, glowing, Shade was healing? It wasn’t the normal color of skin certainly. But it looked like it was somehow healing. Then, they went through the process of Sansa hugging her all over again quite tightly. Lady buried her head against Sansa’s chest, stretching up slightly to be able to do it, hoping to convey to her that it was a sacrifice she had chosen and would choose again if she had it to do over.

And oh how Lady wanted Sansa to open her third eye. She wanted Sansa’s mind mingled with hers. She wanted to be able to _communicate_. But most of all, she wanted to run. She wanted to feel the wind in her fur of light and have Sansa feel it too. It would not free her from the prison of the Red Keep, but maybe, for just a short time, her _soul_ could be free at least. Oh how she wanted that so much, but how could she get her to understand. Sansa needed to understand. Lady’s connection to the other wolves let her know Summer and Bran already did it, let her feel Bran’s utter delight at being able to run free over Winterfell’s rolling meadows and through the dark forests with every sense so much more alert than a human’s while he left his broken body behind even for just a few hours.

But how could Lady get Sansa to do that? She refused to go inside Sansa again after what had happened last time. Clearly, she could not control herself well enough to keep Sansa safe. No. That would not serve. If only she could _will_ her thoughts into Sansa’s mind. They had spoken before when Lady had comforted her, but she wanted more! She wanted what Bran and Summer had, what Jon and Ghost were starting to develop — though not yet to the level of Bran and Summer. Speaking would wane her energy. And she wanted to run with Sansa.

“Open your Third Eye, Sansa.” She said. “Like Bran and Summer.” She conserved her words carefully. She knew she had told Sansa this before. But Sansa did not seem to understand. Lady could feel her confusion in waves. She had connected only once and so briefly — during their last dream when they were all together.

“The book, Sansa, the book Nymeria brought you. The book on your bed. Read the rest. Do not forget it. It is important. There are handwritten notes in the back. Notes from a Warg. Nymeria says so. Read about your Third Eye. You must open it fully!” As she felt her strength begin to wane she spoke with more force, desperate to get everything out before her energy failed her and she dematerialized and slept until energy returned to her once more. She was strained, struggling, her color becoming less and less luminous, fading.

“No! Don’t go yet!” Sansa protested.

“I…” Lady tried to tell her she could not control it, that manifesting even as a less physical shade — far less physical than her shade of the day she had saved Ned — was still a prospect that required so very much energy. She would sleep the night and all the next day away mayhaps.

* * *

“Lady Sansa!”

She felt as if she was coming back from a long way away. But when she sensed a touch on her hand, Sansa jolted into wakefulness and flinched away from the touch as quickly as she was able out of instinct. Gentle touches could easily become forceful and mean, that much she knew from experience.

However, when she blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes she realized, to her surprise, that it was Tommen standing at the side of the bed, holding a candle that lit his young, earnest face. Sansa’s maid had braided her hair before she went to sleep to keep it from becoming tangled in the night, but it was coming down rather badly now and Sansa had to push an auburn lock out of her eyes to look at the young boy properly. “Tommen? What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. Why aren’t you asleep in your bed? It must be the middle of the night.”

“It’s the hour of the Owl.” Tommen stated, not moving.

“What is a good little boy like you doing out of your bed at this hour? If your mother or sister came to look for you, they would be very worried indeed.” Sansa said, finally sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed so she could face Tommen and talk to him properly. It was clear he was not leaving her bedchamber any time soon. She regretted her movement almost instantly as the cold air accosted her and goose prickles rose over her skin.

Tommen noticed her shivers and retrieved the dressing gown laying on the back of her dressing table chair and brought it to her. “Here. You look chilled,” He said. Tommen always did his best to take care of his mother and his sister and any other lady really. And he could tell Sansa must be cold by the expression she had made when she uncovered.

Sansa smiled in spite of herself and wrapped the dressing robe around her shoulders, snuggling into its warmth in relief. Tommen, she realized, was always such a perfect gentleman. For a moment she felt a pang in her heart. If only _he_ could have been the eldest Baratheon child. He was truly good, not like Joffrey who was golden on the outside but rotten inside. Though, none of that explained why Tommen was in her room, missing from his own, in the middle of the night.

“Thank you. But you did not answer my question.”

Tommen looked just slightly nervous and then seemed to recover himself. “You fixed my knee, and it was very kind of you. You were nice to me even though Joffrey hasn’t been nice to you. I know he hasn’t because he isn’t nice to me or Myrcella either. I wanted to do something nice for you this time.” Tommen paused for a moment. “Come with me.” He held out his young hand to her.

Sansa felt drawn to Tommen as she stood and took his hand when, all the while, she was telling herself that she could not do this. It was dangerous, foolish, could get both of them in trouble. It could have dire consequences not only for herself and Tommen but her family as well if they were caught doing whatever Tommen was of a mind to do. And, yet, she was on her feet, wrapping her dressing robe tighter about herself, and moving to follow him as she pushed her feet into some soft slippers. “Can you at least tell me where we are going?” Sansa asked as she made herself presentable to leave.

“I found out where they’re keeping your lord father. One of the Turkeys is my friend and is going to help us. So you can see him.”

The rush of emotions that overcame her in that moment felt like a waterfall breaking over Sansa’s head. There was terror because this was asking for far more trouble than she ever could have imagined, worry for her father, anxiousness that Tommen had involved another person whose loyalty Sansa did not know — even Tommen himself was a Baratheon and a Lannister. However, more than any of those things, there was a relief and joy that filled her nearly to bursting. Her heart pounded as if she’d run as far and as fast as she could. There was a true smile tugging at her lips and happiness that wasn’t a hollow, pretend mask all across her face.

In the back of her mind she knew it was something she shouldn’t do, but no power in the world or that she possessed could stop her either. She needed to see her Father. There was so much she needed to say to him, so much she needed to apologize for, and this might be her only chance. They were far from safe. Joffrey still wanted her father’s head to adorn that spike he had left right in the middle that he’d shown her little over a fortnight ago. The thought made her shiver in a way that was completely unrelated to cold. Her father could, again, be sentenced to death at any minute, and this time she knew nothing would save him. She went to the Godswood, for her Father since he could not, to pray every single day that that would not happen, but that did not mean the Gods would see fit to answer her prayers. No, she had to see him and this might be her only chance. Her mind was made up.

“The turnkey. He’s safe?” Sansa asked, anxiety filling her soft voice. She wondered if Tommen truly understood the danger he could be placing all of them in.

“Yes,” Tommen said solemnly. “His name is Tomas and he is not so much older than us. His lady mother works in the Red Keep too — as a washing woman. I trust him. But we must be quiet now, and quick.”

The two of them made swift work along the passages of Maegor’s Holdfast. Tommen seemed as if he knew the way like it was the back of his own hand, and Sansa wondered how much time he had spent exploring the Red Keep to know his way around so effectively. She had to hurry to keep up with Tommen, for even though she was taller, he was quicker. She did not want to be separated at all as he had the candle and her only protection, scant as it might be, should they be discovered.

Sansa felt a certain amount of guilt relying on a boy only about to see eight namedays for protection, but it was the best she had at the moment. She tried not to think about what would happen if he turned on her just as the other Lannisters had. It was all more risk than she was prepared for, but she had no other ideas and simply could not resist the opportunity to see her father.

Tommen scampered like a little monkey of the type mummers often brought along, Sansa thought as she followed him down a narrow, dark, steep flight of servants’ stairs that she had never even noticed before. Then again, she supposed thats what servant stairs were for — to keep the maids and valets and others out of the main stairways and corridors as much as possible while they went about their work.

Down and down they went and it was chilly even with Sansa in her robe. “Are you cold?” She asked Tommen softly.

“No, I’m fine.” He was a little, but it wasn’t very much like a man grown to admit he was chilled. It had never felt quite so cold down here, but he also didn’t make a habit of coming in his nightclothes either.

They came upon a door and then another at the bottom of the stairs. Tommen opened them and guided Sansa through. Even in the darkness, he had no trouble reaching into a niche near the doorway carved into the stone and removing a torch. He touched the candle to its oil-soaked cloth tip and it flared to life casting a much larger flame than his meager candle. He left the candle on the shelf for their return trip.

Sansa lurched backward toward the wall when Tommen’s torch lit up two rows of gigantic monsters. They weren’t moving, so maybe they hadn’t seen them. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get away! Sansa could see teeth. The monsters had teeth. The monsters had teeth longer and far thicker than her arm! Some of them had teeth as tall as her _waist_. Seven save them! She stuffed her fingers in her mouth but still didn’t manage to completely hide a squeak of terror.

“It’s okay.” To her surprise, Sansa felt Tommen’s small, warm hand work its way into hers. “Myrcella was terrified the first time she saw them too. They aren’t alive anymore. It’s just skulls.”

“Skulls… Just skulls…” Sansa repeated, sucking in a couple of breaths as she tried to calm the frenetic pace of her heart.

“Yes. The Targaryen dragons. Well, some of them. There are nine and ten skulls here in total, but there were far more than nine and ten dragons over the years. Many of the skulls have been lost in time. They used to line the walls of the Throne Room, but Nuncle Tyrion said Father had them put down here. It’s really a shame to let them languish here. I do wish he had put them where they could be appreciated — away from the throne room of course.”

Sansa shook her head in disbelief as they began to make their way between the two rows of dragon skulls. Her blue eyes were wide in the darkness. Walking between these skulls — many of which were larger than she was — was eerie indeed. Further on, the skulls got smaller but still managed to retain an unsettling degree of eeriness even so. Sansa disliked walking between them and let out a long breath once they were through and out the door at the other end of the cellar where she could no longer see the skulls.

Arya would have loved everything about this place, and Sansa wondered if she’d seen it. In their first weeks in King’s Landing, Arya had explored the Keep from the tallest tower to the dungeons to the exteriors. A sharp sadness passed through her. Her wild little sister had driven her to tears of frustration at times, but oh how she missed her now, little wildling child or no.

They were going down again. At each turn of the story there was a door. They went down three turns. “There are four levels of dungeons. No one knows what happens on the fourth floor, but people don’t survive there,” Tommen told her, causing Sansa to shiver violently again. But he continued, “Your Father isn’t there. He’s in the third level, the black cells. There isn’t light there but people do live to come out of them.” He gave her hand a soft squeeze.

Sansa shied away as a tall, lithe figure jumped out of the shadows and into the light of Tommen’s torch. The boy grinned and the new arrival grinned back. As far as Sansa could tell, he was probably her age give or take a bit. She suspected given that Tommen was saying hello to him that this must be the turnkey, Tomas.

“Rugen?”

“Snoring loud as a man sawin’ logs,” Tomas crowed. “I replaced his regular night cup with dreamwine. He won’t be awake for hours and he’ll just think he fell asleep on his chair. Easy,” Tomas shrugged. He handed Tommen a little brass key. “Stark is the eleventh cell on the right.”

Tommen grinned. “Thank you, Tomas!” He said as he took the key.

“You’re welcome. Was kinda fun actually. Now go. Just knock when you’re ready to come back out.” He gestured the two of them through the door.

“Wait. Tomas, do you have a candle? I.. Don’t want to hurt their eyes — poor, miserable things.”

Sansa realized, while she waited for Tomas to root about for a candle that she suspected from Tommen’s words why these were called the ‘Black’ cells. These prisoners were kept totally isolated in the dark. She shuddered when she thought of her father being kept here — other men as well.

At one time, she would have thought that if they were prisoners they deserved such a fate. They had, after all, disturbed the King’s peace or behaved traitorously in some way or another. Now, she understood things were not so simple as all that. How many of these men might be here for unfair reasons such as her father was. Sansa did not know what all had happened, but she knew her father never would have betrayed King Robert. Even if the late king had not been like a brother to him, it was everything Ned Stark stood for and believed in to act with honor. Betraying one’s king before his body was even cold was not acting with honor.

She had no more time to think as Tomas found and lit a candle for them and gave it to Tommen.

Tomas pulled open the heavy door that led into the black cells. It was so thick Sansa knew she never would have been able to pull it, but the lad was stronger than he looked, apparently. “Watch, there’s a step here,” Tommen said, offering his free hand to help Sansa down. Once again she was struck by just how much a gentleman Tommen was.

She had little time to dwell on Tommen as the black cells accosted her. She almost regretted the door closing behind them, thought to turn back, right then and there. But, no, she needed to see her father. It was the smell even before the darkness. The foul stench was so horrible she could not help but gag, struggling to keep the supper she’d eaten a few hours ago in her stomach. Sansa pressed her face against the cool stone and forced herself to breathe slow and try to acclimate herself to the rancid smell.

Tommen stopped to wait for her. His own stomach roiled at the stench, but he was determined to act as a man grown and not show her that. So, instead, he steeled himself and simply stood at the bottom of the step and waited for her to join him.

Eventually, Sansa thought she had enough control over her stomach to proceed. She took note that the floor and walls were stone by the meagre light of Tommen’s candle. The walls were lined with thick, wooden doors very close together. Sansa could only imagine how small that meant the cells were.

The stone floor sloped down on either side and a gutter ran the length of the center with a drain that must lead down into the sewers. Sansa made a face as she realized this must be where they emptied out the chamber pots — and she was walking in it with the only pair of slippers she had. The knowledge made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. She hurried even faster along with Tommen and tried to keep her feet out of anything that seemed particularly wet, choosing to walk on the sloped floor now rather than directly down the middle. Tommen did the same, but he was wearing boots, and it wasn’t so bad for him.

When Tommen cast the candle about the hall, rats squeaked and scurried to find places to disappear when exposed. Sansa barely avoided letting out a little squeak and found herself stepping up right behind Tommen — as if she could expect a boy of seven to defend her? Ridiculous! Nonetheless, it was what she did. Fortunately, the rats seemed to abhor the light and quickly disappeared, though Sansa could still hear their squeaks and scrabbling from whence they had gone and it made her skin crawl. They both hurried along a little faster until they reached the cell Tomas had indicated.

Tommen put the little brass key into the lock and turned it. It took both he and Sansa to swing open the big door, though they finally managed it.

Sansa realized at once that things were worse than she had ever imagined. The stench of human waste, rot, and infection swept over her the moment the door was open. Looking around from the light of Tommen’s candle, she realized there _was_ no chamber pot. The floor was covered with dirty, reeking rushes. With no other recourse, the prisoners had no choice but to try to just choose a corner of their tiny cell in which to relieve their bodily needs. Moreover, it looked like the rushes were not changed regularly; whatever corner had been chosen, urine and feces were taking over more and more of two corners now. Anger flared inside Sansa not only for her father but for all the poor wretches unfortunate enough to be kept here in conditions no better than animals in a stable — worse actually — even horses had their stalls mucked twice a day.

But when Sansa caught sight of her father, all of these concerns went right out of her mind.The cast he had been wearing was nearly rotten all through now. She could see that his leg was unhealed, though she remembered the leg had been kicked by the guard holding her father when he went down after the botched execution. Eddard was ghost pale after the months of not seeing sun. He was gaunt and wore rags that barely covered his thin frame. Through them, Sansa could see far too many bones in his body. Her father had always been tall and lithe, not carrying extra weight. Now, he looked as if he was legitimately starving. A pattern of horrible purple, green, and black bruising (could it truly be from the execution attempt so many weeks ago?) traveled all along his sides from what his ragged clothing revealed. “Father,” and her voice broke, quavering on the word.

Eddard Stark looked up in disbelief. “Sansa?” He asked in consternation. He had to be dreaming this. He _hoped_ he was dreaming this. Much as he wanted to see his daughters, he would not have them see him like this or journeying to this place or putting themselves in danger to be here! He found, as per usual, he struggled to rise and was obliged to lean against the wall for support, not truly being able to stand properly at all. He was having more and more trouble with the now twice broken leg and broken ribs. They did not give the prisoners enough food for bodies to heal. Probably, they hoped to kill him off here in the dungeons. Then, they could say his blood was not on their hands.

To his even greater surprise, beside his daughter in her nightclothes stood Tommen Baratheon with a brightly burning candle. It made his heart start and his breathing quicken. Sansa was not safe with the Lannisters. Surely, surely she understood this? And yet she seemed nonplussed about Tommen’s presence or maybe even grateful for it. So many questions bubbled to his lips but he wasn’t able to form any of them. Instead, he said only his eldest daughter’s name again.

Tommen stood back, not interrupting.

Not even caring about her ruined slippers (for surely by this point they would be), Sansa dashed across the soiled, putrid rushes and into her father’s arms. She hugged him so tightly she was a little afraid she would break him, especially given his return hug was no stronger than the way she imagined a bird would hug. Nonetheless, her arms were around his neck and her face buried against him as her tears coursed down her cheeks silent and wet.

Eddard struggled to keep his own emotions in check but tears streaked down his dirty face all the same (oh what he wouldn’t give for a proper bath and a good scrubbing just now!) He linked his arms around his daughter’s waist. Part of him did not want to touch her, filthy as he was, but he couldn’t help himself at the same time.

“Sansa, what are you doing here? This is dangerous,” Eddard managed once he had recovered hold on his emotions a bit. “You cannot stay here. You must go back to your room!” He was becoming more agitated, but Sansa gently pressed a finger over his parched, cracked lips.

“Shh, Father. I have an escort to help me.”

Tommen stepped forward just slightly and gave a polite bob of his head. “Lord Stark.”

Eddard’s eyes were worried as he gazed into his daughter’s face, trying to see if she recognized the danger. Tommen was a Lannister. Eddard felt that Tommen would as surely betray Sansa as the rest of that wretched family had done. It was imperative he somehow make Sansa understand this before she left — a difficult thing since Tommen was standing right there. Nonetheless, Eddard had to try. “Sansa… he.” Ned breathed against her ear under the guise of hugging her again.

“He has become my friend. I can trust him.” _I hope._ Sansa whispered back with more conviction than she had, for she didn’t want her father to worry.

Eddard’s blood felt chilled in a way the cold air of the black cells themselves couldn’t cause. He had no way to safely continue this conversation with Sansa for he was sure, even in the dungeon, there were ears. Moreover, Tommen was standing just at the other side of the cell at a polite distance — not as if it was much of one considering the tiny size of each of the cells. He would have to find a way to get word to Sansa through some other means — not that he had anything to offer in exchange for such a favor and that was even if he could find someone he trusted to deliver it — and not into the wrong hands.

For now, he was powerless and all he could do was hope Tommen would not betray his daughter, and he had little trust for Lannisters. He did not like the feeling of powerlessness he had regarding his daughters’ safety. It was a unique kind of torture all its own to know one’s children were in danger and be able to do nothing. He spent a good part of every day wishing, bitterly, that he had never accepted Robert’s near-demand for him to become Hand. He should have said no. He should have found a way, but he had not and now it had cost him dearly. He did not care, really, about the cost to himself but certainly the cost to his family was a toll so heavy on his shoulders he could hardly bear it. If not for his children and Catelyn — surely home at Winterfell by now — he likely would have given up completely and let his wounds claim him.

He found he could not stay on his feet, even leaning against the wall, as pain lanced through his broken leg. He sunk back into the rushes. They were clean there if nowhere else. He managed it by shimmying down the wall away from where he usually sat. It leached all his strength to do, but he still had enough pride to be unwilling to sit amongst his own excrement — though maybe that would eventually fade too, he thought, blackly.

Her father’s inability to stand reminded Sansa of how sick he really was and swept away her thoughts of her own situation and Tommen. “Your leg has not healed. And you are so thin. And the… conditions…” Sansa breathed, sinking to her knees beside her father.

Somehow, he could tell that she had grown, had matured. She would have been unable to cope with this situation only a few short months ago — were it that she did not have to! Eddard Stark had never thought to be in such a position, but something brought back the memory of that last night he and Catelyn had spent together before he accepted the position of Hand and he had morosely pointed out how his father and Brandon had gone south to the summons of a king and never returned. Now, it seemed the same was very likely to be his own fate.

Eddard reached to clasp his daughter’s wrist and draw her near so he might kiss her on the cheek and bid her to go, to return to safety. It was enough for him merely that he had been able to see her and ascertain she looked healthy at least, though her eyes were far from happy. However, when he did this, Sansa let out a hiss of pain and drew back instantly.

Before she could stop her father, he drew back the sleeve of her dressing gown slightly, enough to see the ugly purple-black bruise blooming across her lower arm above her wrist where her clothing would conceal it. Her stomach flipped.

“Sansa!” Eddard whispered, aghast. “How did this happen?”

Both were so fixated on her wrist — Sansa in horror her father had discovered the bruises and Eddard in horror his daughter was in such a state — that neither noticed Tommen’s eyes had widened and his mouth had set in a grim way.

It made Tommen angry to think it, but he had a strong feeling of how that bruise had gotten on Sansa’s arm. After the previous week, he had a couple of his own and the cut on his knee, though much improved, was still healing and had a scab. Tommen was beginning to despise his elder brother in a way he had never despised anyone. Tommen was a kind and sweet boy and had not been designed to be hateful, but he could not help it with Joffrey.

Sansa kept her wrist pulled back even as her father tried to reach and examine it. She quickly covered it again with her dressing gown. “It’s nothing.” She said, not meeting his eyes. Sansa had never been a good liar, and she knew if her father saw her eyes she would be given away. Likely, she already was before she had even started, but there was nothing he could do, and he was already worried enough without additional concerns anyway.

“Sansa. Look at me,” Eddard commanded his daughter, though his tone was gentle it also brooked no refusal.

Reluctantly, Sansa lifted her face to Eddard who could see the truth in her eyes. “This is not nothing,” Eddard said, reaching for and claiming her wrist. Sansa let him this time as he rolled back her sleeve to take a better look at the hideous bruise. It was finger shaped. Eddard recognized at once this was from someone grasping her arm so tightly she had been bruised and fury rose in him perhaps stronger than any he had known before. “Who did this to you?”

Sansa shook her head and downcast her eyes again, pressing her lips together mutely.

Eddard reached to tilt his daughter’s face up. “Sansa. Tell me.” Again, his voice was gentle but commanding. He had, at this point, completely forgotten Tommen standing across the cell.

“Joffrey,” Sansa mumbled, barely audible.

Tommen couldn’t hear her, but he didn’t need to. It made him angry. Sansa was a good person whether she was a traitor’s daughter or not. And was Eddard Stark a traitor anyway? He had always been kind to Tommen and Myrcella and had clearly loved Tommen’s father. Moreover, Starks, Tommen knew, were noted for their honor. It did not seem like the man he had briefly known. Even if he was a traitor, Sansa was not and she did not deserve Joffrey’s cruelties anymore than he or Myrcella did.

Eddard wanted to rage. He wanted to scream. He wanted to take up Ice and go and kill Joffrey Baratheon. He would have happily joined Jaime Lannister amongst the ranks of kingslaying if he had had the strength and a sword to do so. His anger boiled hotter and higher than his reason, which would eventually catch up. Right now, though, it was only a black fury. Eddard did not have the strength or health to do any of those things. Were he to even manage to escape and procure a sword from somewhere, the Kingsguard would cut him to ribbons, weak as he was, before a single slash reached the King’s body. While Eddard was not afraid of death, it would be useless to do so if it did not even have a chance of helping Sansa.

“Father. Stop.” Sansa said, seeing his fury and reaching to touch his cheek. “There is nothing to be done for it. It is better not to think of. He wishes me to…” What was it the Hound had said? “Be his lady love and sing him pretty courtesies and love him and fear him too. And so that is what I must do. We must all do things we would rather not just now. There are no other options,” Sansa said with greater conviction than she felt. She only knew she had to keep her father safe, and he could not do something foolish. “It is my own fault. I begged for the betrothal.”

“No. I shall not hear you say this is your fault again, Sansa Stark. Do you understand me?” Eddard stated, pulling his daughter’s face up gently so their eyes met. His were burning with a fierceness Sansa could never remember seeing there.

“Yes,” Sansa whispered, her voice taking on a meekness that made Eddard feel slightly guilty, but he would not have her blaming herself.

She pulled her sleeve down again.

“For now, be careful. Trust no one. Especially not the Lannisters.” He said the last leaning forward to whisper in her ear as he recalled Tommen’s presence when the youth shifted. It was amazing how _still_ he could be, Ned thought.

Sansa just nodded, still a little frightened of the tones her father’s voice had taken on much as she knew everything he said was exactly right. “I will be, Father,” She told him, doing her best to smile for him.

“How is Arya?” Ned finally asked his mind recalling that he had yet to ask, and a stab of guilt hit him in the belly. But Sansa and her troubles had been right before his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Sansa responded sadly. “I have been unable to even see her since… it happened.” She could not bring herself to say since her father had been betrayed and, she, Sansa had been partially responsible for that. “They say for a while she got out of the Red Keep — for weeks — but was found in Flea Bottom eventually and brought back. I have only caught a glimpse of her once or twice. She didn’t look harmed, but her hair has been shaved, so she must have come back with lice,” Sansa could not help but make a face. She had never had lice but thought the prospect to be absolutely vile. She would never want bugs in her hair nor to have her hair shorn all off.

The expression on her face reminded Ned of a time before everything was so dismal and he could not resist a slight chuckle, though stopped right away when he realized it hurt his ribs, gasping slightly and reaching for them.

“I wish I could see her too,” Sansa admitted with a small sigh. “I… I need to apologize to her. I am the elder sister, and I should have been kinder to her and more patient with her even if she is trying and terribly unladylike.”

Ned couldn’t resist a chuckle and a grimace once more. “It is just that she is more like your Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon than your Mother,” He pointed out with a soft smile. “But I understand how she is vexing to you. All I have ever wanted was for the both of you to try to get along the best you can, but you are two different people and sisters are bound to disagree at times. So you mustn’t think I’m upset with either of you for what has happened. It has passed in any case and nothing can be done about the past, so it is best not to dwell upon it,” Eddard told his daughter softly.

Sansa knew her father was right, but that did not make the advice any easier to follow.

“Do you know anything more of your mother and brothers?”

Sansa bit her lip thoughtfully. “Nothing new. Robb and the Northmen are at war with the Lannisters. I… have heard they are doing well.” She was about to say she hoped they would march on King’s Landing and rescue she, her father, and Arya and destroy the Lannisters. However, she quickly shut her mouth again when she remembered Tommen was still behind them. She had likely already said too much in front of the Young Lion. And… he was a good boy. Sansa realized, suddenly, she would not want he and Myrcella to die if Robb should win the war.

Fortunately, Eddard did not ask for more details, simply nodding and taking this as a good sign.

Reluctantly Tommen broke into their conversation and said softly. “Sansa, we should go. The cooks and maids will be awake soon, and I need to have you back in your room before that so they don’t come upon us in the hall or notice you are missing.” He looked legitimately sad, when Sansa turned, that he had to cut their conversation short, but Sansa could only be thankful he had brought her in the first place.

Sansa leaned forward to give her father the most gentle hug she could manage since she was aware his ribs pained him. He hugged her back tighter in spite of the grimace and wince of pain it caused him. He kissed her gently on both cheeks and said, “Keep yourself safe.”

“I will,” Sansa said. Both of them were aware it was hardly a promise she could be certain she could keep.

She hugged him once more before she forced herself to let go and rise to her feet. She wished she could ask Tommen to get more food for him or at least for a Maester to see to him. But doing such a favor, for Tommen likely would try Sansa was starting to see, could put her young friend in danger as well as herself. She did not wish that for either of them. She would only be able to pray Robb and his army of Northmen arrived soon.

The two of them stepped out into the hallway between the cells and Tommen locked it again carefully, covering their tracks. They were very quiet as they walked and Tommen could tell Sansa was lost in her thoughts and did not bother her as he led the way once more, with his candle. At the main door, they knocked again and Tomas let them out. Tommen gave him back the key and both Sansa and Tommen thanked Tomas once again.

The walk back was utterly silent between them. Sansa barely even noticed as they walked back through the dragon skulls. 

Once they had reached Sansa’s bedchamber, Sansa realized Tommen had been right about the time, and could only be grateful to him once again. It was already the hour of the Nightingale and the castle servants would be up and about very soon! She paused as they entered her room once more and gazed down at Tommen. “Thank you,” Sansa whispered, struggling not to let her glistening eyes drop their tears.

“You’re welcome,” Tommen said, smiling softly at her. “I should go now before I am missed.” With that, the boy disappeared out the door of Sansa’s bedchamber.

When Sansa was certain he was gone, she quickly stripped off her clothes. Her shift was badly stained where she had knelt in the straw and the slippers stank of urine so badly she knew nothing could be done to save them. They were a price she would have paid a thousand times over to see her father. She buried the slippers in the hearth’s ashes, pushing them back as far as she could reach. The shift, she balled up and put beneath her mattress. She would have to find a way to wash it on her own. Then, she went to clean herself at the wash basin as best she could.

When, at last, all of that was done all Sansa could do was lay back down for the short time until her maid would arrive to get her ready for the day.

She knew it was a fruitless venture to try to sleep again, so she merely laid on the bed and replayed the events of the evening over again in her mind from the odd dream about Lady that she had not had a chance to think about until now and the trip to see her father replaying itself over and over in her mind.

* * *

His breathing was ragged and a painful stitch tugged at his side as he rounded yet another turn in the steps, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let Joffrey catch up to him or else Joffrey would make him fight again just like he had a sennight ago. Tommen’s knee was still scabbed from that incident, and he was loathe to add to the collection with more wounds.

He might have avoided the training yard altogether, but Lord Tywin had announced there would be a tourney the next moon’s turn. Perhaps it was to cheer everyone up and distract the lords from their troubles with the war and entertain the smallfolk in King’s Landing? Or, perhaps, it was to distract Joffrey and keep him out of trouble. Tommen wasn’t quite sure. Regardless, Tommen had doubled his training efforts even so because he was hoping he might be allowed to ride his pony in the joust if he continued to work hard. However, Tommen was not the only one who wanted to ride and that kept Joffrey in the training yard more often as well.

Joffrey was always rough when they fought and he was older, stronger, and had had more lessons and Tommen always wound up hurt and mocked as well. Joffrey wasn’t patient or helpful like Ser Fiore. Tommen had sworn he would never let Joffrey catch him in the training yard without the Master at Arms again, but here they were once more. This time, though, Tommen had simply fled rather than let himself get drawn into a fight.

Of course, Joffrey had yelled after him about being a craven and that Joffrey was king and Tommen, as his little brother especially, should honor his wishes. Then, when Joffrey had seen taunts would not draw Tommen to fight with him, he had started chasing Tommen. Joffrey’s legs were longer but Tommen had a head start and intended to keep it that way.

Once again, his mother was locked away in Small Council and Tommen had no one to go to. He didn’t want to go crying to someone else anyway. He was a man grown and should deal with Joffrey on his own. He shouldn’t need their mother to fight his battles for him. Therefore, it had seemed like running was the best option. So, he fled the training yard and ran for Maegor’s as fast as he could.

Tommen couldn’t explain why it was to Sansa Stark’s chamber that his feet took him. He didn’t even know what he would have said to Sansa if she was there — which she wasn’t. Looking around, Tommen decided that the wardrobe made the most sense as a hiding place in case Joffrey followed him this far.

Of course, as he crawled inside, he felt guilt. He was aware Joffrey was just as beastly to Sansa as he was to Myrcella and Tommen himself, so he was probably just making it worse by being here. Then again, Sansa wasn’t here and if he went out again he would risk Joffrey having caught up to him. He decided to stay put. Tommen wiggled himself in behind Sansa’s cloaks and dresses until his back rested against the far corner of the wardrobe. One of the cloaks had fallen, and he rested his head on it where it was trapped between himself and the side of the wardrobe. Then, he could only pray to the Gods Joffrey wouldn’t find him here.

&&

The next thing of which he was aware was raised voices — well, one raised voice. Joffrey’s. Tommen reached up to rub his eyes and winced at his stiff back and neck. He had, he realized, fallen asleep in Sansa’s wardrobe with his cheek pressed against the cloak that had fallen as a makeshift pillow.

The wardrobe around him muted Joffrey’s words, so Tommen couldn’t hear what Joffrey was upset about, but the volume and pitch of his voice told Tommen he was definitely angry, very angry. Tommen sucked in a breath as he heard a second voice join — Ser Meryn. Something about this situation, Tommen very much misliked. He knew he should come out of the wardrobe and help Sansa. She had helped him when he had needed, had she not? He should come out and tell Joffrey to stop being mean. He always tried to do that when Joffrey picked on Myrcella, though the results were usually rather ineffectual. Sometimes, he could distract Joff long enough for Myrcella to flee though. Maybe he could have done the same for Sansa.

Tommen crawled forward slightly and pressed his fingers against the door of the wardrobe just enough that a crack appeared through which he could listen and see a small sliver of the room beyond.

“Punish her, Ser Meryn.”

Sansa looked for a moment as if she would speak and then she just closed her eyes and seemed to resign herself as Tommen watched in horror as Ser Meryn took a big mailed fist and punched Sansa in the stomach causing her to lose her breath and tumble to the floor. She didn’t even cry. She didn’t do anything except curl in on herself in a fetal position to try to protect herself from further ‘punishment,’ which Ser Meryn then doled out, hitting and kicking Sansa as she lay on the floor.

Tommen knew he was a horrible craven, but he could not bear to look at what was happening. He was breathing fast and had pressed his hands over his eyes as he listened to the sound of Ser Meryn hitting Sansa and becoming more rough because Joffrey said he wanted to hear her cry as an apology to him.

Tommen felt sick at the sounds and frightened by the way Joffrey bellowed. Later, he couldn’t even remember what it was Joffrey had been upset about, only the hideous ‘punishment’ Joff was having Ser Meryn enact upon Sansa. Surely, Sansa could not have done something so awful as to deserve to be beaten even if she _was_ the daughter of a traitor. Tommen clenched his eyes closed and prayed to all the Seven that Ser Meryn would stop as Sansa finally cried out.

&&

Tommen had wanted to come out of the wardrobe and help Sansa after Joffrey and Ser Meryn had left, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Undoubtedly, Sansa would think him an awful person for having been in her wardrobe all of that time and not saying or doing something to help her. He knew he should have done something and couldn’t explain why he had frozen and become too scared to intervene. He was almost a man grown. It was unseemly for him to allow what had just occurred. Yet, he had. Shame colored his cheeks. He would not refuse to intervene the next time, he decided. It made him shiver to think that, like as not, there would be a next time. There always was with he and Myrcella. Tommen was going to put his foot down now. He was going to do something to protect all of them.

Finally, only after Sansa had cried herself to sleep, did Tommen leave the wardrobe and go scampering out of her chambers. His feet carried him to his mother’s chambers. He hadn’t specifically meant to go there. He hadn’t really known where he was going, but this seemed as good a place as any he supposed. His mother would be done with Small Council by this late and soon they would have supper. His stomach bubbled anxiously. He was not looking forward to seeing Joffrey at supper. At least, though, Joff wasn’t going to do anything to him right in front of Mother.

Tommen found Cersei and Myrcella sitting contentedly together embroidering in the circle of light cast by an oil lamp. “There you are, my love. I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to. Did you go to the ravenry?” Cersei asked, making room for Tommen to join them.

Shaking his head Tommen said, “Not this afternoon. I’ll go tomorrow.” He sat on the chaise where Cersei had made room for him and traced his boot in patterns on the floor, biting the inside of his lip in thought about how to bring up what he was thinking. Much as he didn’t like not being able to do things on his own, he couldn’t even protect _himself_ from Joff, let alone someone else. He would have to ask for help and there was no getting around it. And when Tommen needed help it was always his family he went to. Usually, it was Uncle Tyrion, but he was still a hostage. Tommen wished his grandfather would make an offer and bring Uncle Tyrion home, Tommen missed him. He had decided that he did not like war even if he did still want to be a knight.

“Mother, can I talk with you about something important.”

Cersei tilted her head in curiosity and said, “You know you can always talk with me about anything, my sweet,” She sat her embroidery aside so she could listen to whatever Tommen had to say. Cersei could not miss the worried look on his face or the fact that he seemed quieter today: pensive and worried about some matter.

“I think that… we should talk about it alone. Sorry ‘Cella.” He said, looking guiltily at his sister.

Myrcella didn’t seem to mind though. She gathered up her embroidery silks, thimble, and other odds and ends. “You can come find me later if we are going to play cards or cyvasse,” she said.

Often enough, Cersei and her children played games of an evening if there was time. Lately, everyone had become quite obsessed with the game cyvasse, so they were playing it a good deal. Tommen adored the war and strategy game. Myrcella was good at it. Their mother was very good at it, and Uncle Tyrion was the best of anyone in the family.He had taught Tommen and Myrcella to play the previous year before their trip to Winterfell. They all had their own strategies. Tommen focused on attack principles but sometimes found himself getting too excited and taking too many militaristic risks. Myrcella was a defensive player — careful and coordinated. Meanwhile, their lady mother was sneaky and cunning never keeping the same style.

When Tommen and his mother were alone, he suddenly found himself without a voice and not sure of what words to use for a minute, but with a little encouragement, he began to talk.

“Father used to hit you.”

Cersei stared at Tommen. That was not what she had expected. She believed she had always made it a point to keep the fights between herself and Robert away from her children. Nonetheless, sometimes they heard or saw things she would have preferred they had not. Usually, Robert kept his abuses out of sight, but there were times he did not. She never told the children where those marks came from, but Tommen and Myrcella were incredibly intelligent and clearly they had figured it out on their own.

Cersei’s cheeks flushed. She was embarrassed that Tommen knew. She did not want her son to think her weak. She did not want Tommen to know Robert had hit her and claimed his marital rights whether Cersei wanted or not — though thank the Gods that had decreased significantly in the last few years of their marriage.

Tommen and Myrcella were innocent and they should not hear of such horrors. Moreover, it shamed Cersei that these things happened at all. She did not want anyone to know them — least of all her children. “I… see.” Cersei finally said, realizing she had not responded to Tommen so lost as she had been in her own thoughts.

“It was not right of him. It is not how a man should behave toward his lady wife. A man should be tender and kind and protect women from harm. Even men who are not knights.”

Cersei’s lips tugged at the corner. She wished her son could stay so innocent forever: a little boy who believed all men treated their wives gently and with the respect a woman was due. She loathed the day when he would know the truth of the matter, just as she dreaded the day he would eventually realize that very few truly chivalrous knights any longer existed, the Kingsuard no longer held the best fighters in the realm (not by far) and the Brothers of the Night’s Watch were a ragtag group of thieves, murderers, rapers, and reavers. Couldn’t he stay her little boy forever? She knew the answer. Soon, he would have seen eight name days (how was that possible?) and he was growing up far more quickly than Cersei wanted.

“That’s true, my love,” She took a deep breath. “But not all men… behave in the manner that they should.”

“Like Father.”

“Yes. Like that.”

“Was Father a bad man, then?”

Cersei had to clench her jaw for a moment. She thought about rough, grabbing, painful hands, thought of public humiliation when Robert would have a whore or kitchen wench in his lap with Cersei across the room watching, thought of the sting of a smack across her cheek — the badge she would wear with honor, thought of a dead woman’s name on his lips in their marriage bed — the marriage bed to which he had come drunk, of how Robert considered her inferior and incapable at most things because she was a woman, the way he wanted her to look pretty more than anything else. She could have helped him. A slight flare of anger came when she thought about that, the way it always did. They could have ruled together and made King’s Landing and all Westeros amazing. Robert’s Rebellion could have been a dawning new era with the two of them at the helm. Of course, she would never have left Jaime behind her, but she could have found room in her heart for both of them. They could have made it work. But that hadn’t happened. It wasn’t what Robert wanted. Frankly, Robert didn’t even want to rule himself let alone rule beside Cersei — or any other woman.

Then, she thought about soft hands, hot lips and tongues seeking each other, of manes of long golden hair and eyes mirrored as twin green emeralds. She thought about how he held her hand while she had birthed her children, thought about how he was the only one who could comfort her during the worst times, thought about how he taught her swordplay and sat in her boring lessons with her septa so she could learn of politics, history, the art of war, and how to fight, thought about how he had looked when she told him he had put a baby in her belly, thought about how carefully he had held each of the children when they were first born and wrapped in a blanket and handed to her because Robert was off hunting somewhere, unable to deign to be there. She thought of her twin and her other half.

And even though Tommen believed, had to believe, that his father was Robert Baratheon and Robert had often chosen to be a bad man — though Cersei knew he had had it in him to be better and often wished he had done so — she could not bring herself to say it. She could not say that Tommen’s father was bad because he wasn’t. Jaime might have his moments. He and Cersei both did, really. They had done horrible things sometimes. But Jaime was not a bad person. There was such goodness in him if one only looked for it. Cersei wondered sometimes if there was any left in her. There had been once. No, she could not bring herself to say he was bad even if Tommen believed she was speaking of someone else.

She took a breath and then settled for, “Even good men can choose wrongly.”

“Is the choice more wrong if it hurts someone else?”

Cersei’s lips pulled up again. “You are asking very difficult questions tonight. I.. Suppose I would say yes. A wrong choice that hurts only oneself is unfortunate, but it is more unfortunate still if it might hurt another too.” Were it only that she was as able to do as she said with her own choices at times.

“And if a man behaves in such a fashion, he should be stopped?”

“Well, in an ideal world, yes.”

Tommen sighed catching on to what his mother meant. “But we do not live in an ideal world.”

“No, sadly,” Cersei said her expression truly sorrowful as she ruffled Tommen’s hair and finally asked, “Where have all these questions come from?”

Tommen was quiet for such a long time, failing to meet her eyes all the while, that Cersei thought he might not speak at all. However, she waited him out and finally Tommen did break the silence. “Today, I ran away from Joffrey in the training yard. He wanted to fight, and I didn’t want to. My knee’s already hurt enough. So, I ran. I hid in Lady Sansa’s wardrobe.”

Cersei raised one eyebrow. Of all the places Tommen could have gone, why was it that he kept winding up with the Stark girl? She would prefer to keep her children far, far away from anyone with the last name Stark. Yes, she knew Sansa had helped Tommen with his knee, but that far from meant Cersei trusted her or wanted Tommen spending time with her. “Why there?”

Tommen shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just where my feet went. I thought about going somewhere else after I’d hidden, but by that time I was worried Joff would catch up to me, so I stayed. Sansa wasn’t in there anyway. In her room, I mean. So, I didn’t bother her or anything. Anyway, I guess I must have fallen asleep in the wardrobe. I don’t know for how long. But then when I woke up Joffrey and Ser Meryn and Sansa were all there. Joff was angry with her.”

An uncomfortable feeling started to spread through Cersei’s belly. She had a feeling she might know where this was going, but waited for her son to continue.

“I don’t know what he was angry about because the wardrobe muffled most of the yelling, so I tried to look out.” Tommen steeled himself and forced his voice not to shake. “And Joff.. He had Ser Meryn beat Sansa. First, he punched her in the stomach with a fist and still had his mail on and she… she just… collapsed. And then he… Joffrey wanted her to cry as an apology and wanted Ser Meryn to keep beating her until she did. And he listened. He kicked and hit her over and over until she cried. Mother, I couldn’t watch.”

“I’m glad you didn’t watch,” Cersei said, true relief flooding through her body. Tommen should not see such things.

“I should have. I should not just have watched, but I should have stopped it. I should have come out and said something. Because… I.. I don’t think this is the first time. You say it’s not befitting of a man to strike a woman… so I think he just has Ser Meryn do it. And not just this one time.”

Cersei felt bile rise in the back of her throat. She could not pretend she wasn’t aware that Joffrey was often unkind to Sansa. She herself could not claim to have been particularly warm and welcoming to the girl ever since Cersei had learned what Eddard Stark knew. She could not trust Sansa. She could not become close to her. It was a risk she could not take. Sansa’s father wanted to destroy her and her children, and the daughter of a traitor could as easily be traitorous. Nonetheless, if what Tommen was accusing Joffrey and Ser Meryn of was true… Cersei had no reason to doubt her youngest. He had always been unfailingly honest with her.

“My love, why do you… think it wasn’t the first time?” Cersei asked.

Tommen swallowed. He remembered the bruise on Sansa’s forearm where her father had touched her and how she’d drawn back with a hiss of pain. But Tommen couldn’t explain all of that. He knew his and Sansa’s visit to the Black Cells had to stay absolutely secret. So, he invented. “I… saw a bruise on her forearm. It wasn’t new. It was all green. It was the shape of fingers. Someone grabbed her and held her so hard it left a hand imprint.” Tommen murmured. “If Joff or Ser Meryn did that… then this can’t be the first time.”

Cersei remembered all too well the conversation she had had with Joffrey. She had told him it was not fitting for a man to strike his lady. She had hoped by doing so she could keep Sansa from too much harm. After all, they would need her to trade back for Jaime, and the Starks would want Sansa unharmed. Clearly, he had taken her at her word then. He did not strike his lady. Instead, he simply had a member of the Kingsguard do it. The way he’d worked around that rule, the way it didn’t seem to bother him to hurt women or young ones, made Cersei’s skin crawl. Moreover, a frustration that somehow this had not come to her attention rose in her blood.

Joff was cruel to Sansa and there was no doubting that. Cersei had done nothing. The world was cruel, that was the way of it and the sooner Sansa Stark realized that and set aside her precious fairytale fantasies about Jonquil and Florian and shining knights the better off she would be. Not even Cersei’s shining knight was a Florian no more than she was a Jonquil. Such an outlook on the world was dangerous for a girl of three and ten who had already flowered. Perhaps that was part of the reason Cersei had not done more. Her own father had been harsh with her as well — and Jaime and Tyrion. Over time, Cersei knew King’s Landing and the Game of Thrones had jaded her, but had it jaded her so much as this? Clearly it had.

“Mother?” Tommen’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You’re going to stop him aren’t you?” The way Tommen looked up at her with his eyes so trusting could have broken her.

“I… will try my love, but I… cannot promise.”

Mayhaps that was Tommen’s first lesson of manhood, painful as it might be for Cersei to witness.

* * *

Joffrey had been cold with Cersei ever since that black day when he had called for Eddard Stark’s head and, later, she had chastised him and even smacked him. She had noticed the coldness but had not known what to do about it. She had no regrets about the things she had said to him that night. Such foolish actions could be the death of all of them and now all Westeros was torn apart by war. Cersei did not know how much Joffrey’s attempted execution of Eddard Stark (at the Sept of Baelor for gods sakes!) had contributed to it, but it certainly hadn’t helped matters, either.

When they had dinner together, she often found that he japed at her in a cruel way, a way that reminded her of how Robert used to speak to her when he was in his cups. It made her shudder. How much had her late husband managed to influence Joffrey? Clearly, it was more than Cersei had realized. Perhaps her own spoiling of him had certainly contributed as well. But there was something else she could not explain that seemed to make Joffrey cruel — almost as if it was embedded into his nature. Robert said the things he did when he was drunk and seemed guilty later. Joffrey could say them when he was sober without batting an eye. And when he made those comments over the dinner table, Cersei usually had something to say back but it rarely seemed to make a difference.

She found herself more nervous than was seemly for a conversation with her son. Perhaps it was because she recognized this was not the first time they would have a conversation about his treatment of others (though before it had been about Tommen and Myrcella) and it had never turned out like Cersei had wished by the end. Joff would always manage to wriggle out of the fault-finding or spin the tale somehow. He had Cersei’s intelligence, Tywin’s cunning and entitlement, but none of the gentleness Jaime could show when he was of a mind to do so. It was not a good combination.

From the beginning, it seemed as if everything went wrong. It was as if Joffrey somehow knew what Cersei had called him to discuss and had no intention of humoring her. He appeared to her summons late and in a sullen, sulky mood that Cersei had no patience to question. Two moons before, she’d have asked him what was causing his black mood, tried to cheer him, talked to him with attempted understanding about his behavior, tried to get him to see the error of his ways, perhaps even begged him to listen. Now, she did not do any of those things. She did not care if Joff didn’t like what she had to say.

She rose to her feet and stared at her son. He stared back at her, completely uncowed. He was waiting for her to speak first but not as a sign of respect. Cersei fell for it only realizing as she was speaking that she had done so. Already, this was going badly indeed — like a game of cyvasse where all the pieces were put wrong from the moment you lifted the screen but it was too late to change anything and all you could do was go forward.

“When I told you it was not fitting for a man to strike his lady, I did not mean you to have it done by proxy.” Cersei was frustrated that the irritation showed in her tone. She would have preferred to appear collected.

At one time, she recognized that Joffrey would have donned that false chagrinned ‘was-that-what-you-meant?’ expression at her accusation. It was a tone she was starting to recognize had been false, though for how long it had been she couldn’t say. Certainly in the past year or two he had not had _true_ regret for his actions. Had he become so good at lying and scheming or had Cersei just been too distracted to notice the change?

Regardless, he did not react that way today. His demeanor remained chilly, his countenance cold. His green eyes, so similar to her own, held no warmth. He stared at her, not looking away or blinking. It was not a kind look.

“What do you suppose the Starks would do if they heard of this?”

Joffrey looked at her for a very long moment and then he laughed.

Cersei’s tone was tense, “What exactly about this situation do you find amusing?”

“Your naiveté, mother.”

Cersei’s nails pressed into the skin of her palms so hard she thought they might actually bleed. Fury filled her. As a house motto, It had always suited her better than Robert anyway.

“We are already at war with the Starks. I do not fear them. I do not make decisions based on the simpering whims of weak-minded fools who place too much value on women. I make my decisions of my own accord. They are not stopping me; nor will they, nor will _you_.”

The vision of the shade of a direwolf checking the sword of the King’s Justice flashed through Cersei’s mind. _Perhaps you _should_ fear them_. “It is not wise to underestimate your enemies. Even weak enemies can prove stronger than you might believe under the right circumstances.”

“Fear the Starks?” Joffrey laughed again. “Robb Stark wasn’t even allowed to fight with a real sword a year ago!”

“The Young Wolf is not who worries me.” Cersei’s jaw clenched as she thought about the Blackfish — who worried her far more than Robb Stark ever had — and what he might do if he found out about Joffrey’s actions. The veteran of half a hundred battles with the majority going in his favor and the might of all the Riverlands and the North behind him…

“The Blackfish…”

“Brynden Tully is an old man! I could unarm him myself! He poses no threat to King’s Landing while I sit the Iron Throne, that I can assure you. And make no mistake, Mother, it is _I_ who sits it.”

“That is not what your Uncle Jaime believes…” Cersei had always kept a mental list of every knight in Westeros who Jaime believed to be of any particular merit. Ser Brynden Tully was near the top of the list.

“If Uncle Jaime is afraid of an old man then perhaps it is a good thing he is not here. I have no use for feckless cravens.”

The fury was like a lightning bolt had shot through Cersei’s body, a bright white flame burning through the very core of her being. No one would call Jaime a craven — the name he would least like to be called — in front of her. No one. The slap was harder than she had intended both fingers and nails making contact with skin. It left a visible mark, and her nails has scratched his face so badly that tiny beads of blood hovered at the edges of the scratches. Cersei was shaking with a fury as strong as she had ever known.

Joffrey stood up with a hand on his cheek, staring at her and Cersei saw true hatred in his eyes.

His voice was dangerous when he spoke again. “I am your king. What you just did is punishable by death. You will never do it again. Never. I will handle my betrothed how I see fit, and you will not interfere. Do not mistake to cross me again.”

At that, Joffrey turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: 
> 
> Cersei is not the only one who finds Joffrey’s behavior to her disliking; Stannis’s rumors cause trouble.


	13. Moon Four (Waning Crescent) -- And In Their Triumph Die Like Fire And Powder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Cersei pay heart-rending prices for their loyalty to those they love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- You’ll soon see that this chapter contains the notorious ‘stripped in front of the court’ scene. Please note that I have kept the dialogue pretty much faithful to the original scene in the books / show at the beginning, though it does change as the scene deviates from canon. That means it’s a good time to mention, as usual, that of course none of this world belongs to me and it all belongs to GRRM. I just enjoy playing with his toys. 
> 
> You’ll notice the relationship between Sansa and Ser Dontos is missing here as the way Sansa’s story develops and the absence of a Purple Wedding make him unnecessary. 
> 
> You’ll also notice that Sandor drinks what I view as the Westerosi version of absinthe. I think it’s a little ahead of it’s time given Absinthe was in the 1700s, but I figure if they can have Moon Tea there, I can get away with absinthe lol. 
> 
> Would you like to see the TV version (I didn’t like the book version at all!) of Shae show up? Obviously, with Tyrion captive, her storyline with him will never happen (nor her betrayal) but I’m sure I can think of another way to press her into service as Sansa’s maid if you all would like to see her. Let me know in the comments! 
> 
> I made the minor changes to Stannis’s letter, later in the chapter, that he asked Pylos to make after he ‘proofread’ it in ACOK.
> 
> I’ve also borrowed some Jaime/Cersei quotes that haven’t been actually said yet at this point in the books to serve story purposes. The other quotes you may or may not recognize are ones she remembers from other pieces of my writing, such as Bound. 
> 
> Thanks to SkySamuelle for the ‘wine and self destruction’ quote. And for always being amazingly supportive of my work. And Thank you as well to all of you who review and being me such joy! Joan_of_Arc, SkySamuelle, and KatMorgan!
> 
> There is one minor playlist change. Songs that go with this chapter are: Proof Of Your Love, Once Upon a December, I Know Places, We Are Broken, Demons, Let The Flames Begin, Dragon Age Inquisition, Kiss Me Like Nobody’s Watching, Call It What You Want, Iris, Stronger, 
> 
> Honestly, I’m not sure whether Sansa’s situation or Cersei’s broke my heart more. This was a difficult chapter to write, but I’m pleased with the final product. 
> 
> **This chapter has significant physical violence in it, reader discretion is advised. The abuse contained herein is of a physical and verbal nature (no sexual abuse).**

Moon Four (Waning Crescent)

And In Their Triumph Die Like Fire and Powder

Something sunk in the pit of Sansa’s stomach like a rock down into the depths of the frigid, black pool in Winterfell’s Godswood, swallowing it up. She wasn’t sure why she thought about that pond just now, but the mental image made her shudder slightly. The Hound was standing in her doorway, his terrible face pulled into a grimace. There was only one reason The Hound ever came to Sansa’s bedchamber, and that was because Joffrey had summoned her.

Sandor knew he didn’t need to say it but did anyway. “The King commands your presence in the throne room.” Sansa struggled not to show her fear. Her eyes were hollow, emotionless, dead. He might have believed her act if he had not seen the shudder of her shoulders when he spoke. She was becoming better, Sandor decided, at playing the part expected of her. And he did not feel bad because it was what was expected of all of them, and it was how she might actually live to see her home and whatever remnants of her family survived this war — if any did.

Sometimes, Joffrey called Sansa to court to stand beside him and attend him while she looked pretty. Despite the mutual loathing that now hung between them, Sansa was still his betrothed. When Sansa thought about that — when she thought about her newly flowered status, thought about the fact that marriage would soon follow, thought about surrendering herself to him, it was enough to make her despair, enough to make her think long and hard about that day on the Traitor’s Walk where, for one horrible moment, she had considering pushing Joffrey to his death and, like as not, tumbling down along with him.

Other times, Joffrey called Sansa in front of the court to face some sort of chastisement he believed she had earned and which he exacted on her in front of nobles and smallfolk alike. Often enough, it had to do with the victories her brother Robb was quickly amassing to his name now that the War of the Five Kings was in earnest. Sansa remembered on the Traitor’s Walk. just a moon ago now, she had spit at Joffrey that maybe Robb would bring her Joffrey’s head on a spike rather than the other way around and shuddered. How foolish she had been even a moon ago. Now, she feared word of Robb’s victories almost as much as she feared word of Lannister victories.

“Hurry up. The longer you keep him waiting the more angry he’ll be and the worse it’ll go for you,” The Hound warned her, spurring Sansa out of thought and back into action. Sandor watched her with crossed arms and an impatient expression on his face. Yes, he could admit that all of this was wrong and unfair, but he barely flinched at that. Sandor’s own life had been filled with undeserved, bitter, unfairnesses. They had jaded him, turned him into The Hound.

Until he had met Sansa Stark, Sandor had not believed truly good people even existed anymore. He would have said they had never existed, but his sister had been the proof against that. But she had died, and with her had died Sandor’s last hope of any goodness left in humanity — until Sansa. He had watched her for so long, waiting for her to drop her innocent facade and show the ugliness that seemed inherent in human beings, but then he had realized — to his even greater horror — that it was no act and she would be devoured here.

Sansa didn’t even acknowledge that she had heard him, though she tried to speed up getting ready, her fingers fumbling with buttons and knots and trembling. She had no idea where her maid was, but her hands were shaking too badly to do up her hair in any of the complicated court styles Joffrey liked. Even the simple ones.

“Stop.” The Hound said from his place at the door.

Sansa stared at him in fear for a second as he advanced on her and not-all-that-gently pushed her hands away from her hair and grabbed the pins out of her hand. His hands in her hair were no more gentle than they had been when he knocked hers out of his way, but he never hurt her. She started to crane to look over her shoulder at him but he just turned her head back in place. “Hold still,” he commanded. Sansa did. Sandor’s hands were no nonsense and brisk as he threaded her hair through his fingers, pinning it here and there until he had piled it into a braided bun at the back of her head with two looser braids hanging down each side of her face along her shoulders. “There,” He said with a sigh, shoving her away from the mirror.

“H-how… Did you?” Sansa asked, staring at her auburn locks twisted into one of the perfect court styles Joffrey liked seeing.

“Stop talking and move godsdammit,” Sandor growled. The last thing Sansa needed was for Joffrey to become _impatient_. Sansa seemed to remember then and flew to the door in a flurry, any questions that she had wanted to invoke gone from her mind as she recalled the probable horror waiting for her in the throne room.

“Tell me what I’ve done,” Sansa murmured as they walked.

“Not you. Your brother.”

Of course, Sansa knew the words she was expected to say and said them quickly. “Robb is a traitor. I had no part in whatever he did.”

Sansa’s head was spinning and she felt as if she could not breathe properly. She knew part of it was the too small dress stretched over her budding teats but the other part was deeper, deep inside her chest and came from fear. _Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer_. _If Robb has done something to Jaime Lannister, I will die. _Though at this point, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“They trained you well little bird,” The Hound muttered.

As it often was, the throne room was crowded with people: lords and ladies, petitioners, smallfolk, and all the members of the Kingsguard only notably excepting the Kingslayer. Sansa tried to suppress a shudder as her eyes slid over Ser Boros and Ser Meryn.

And another sight as well. Perhaps she would have stopped walking altogether if The Hound hadn’t grasped her by the upper arm and pulled her along. Joffrey was standing before the Iron Throne with an ornate crossbow in his hands, winding it slowly, so slowly, with a sadistic smile on his wormy lips. Sansa’s eyes widened, flashing to his hands and the menacing looking crossbow quarrel. Somewhere far away and yet altogether too close, she heard a cat meowing piteously. Sansa was willing to guess she knew why and felt sick. She could taste bile and the bread she had eaten at breakfast creeping up the back of her throat, but she forced it down.

Sansa immediately fell to her knees before the King, prostrating herself on the floor.

“Kneeling won’t save you now.” Joffrey’s voice was like ice. “You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treasons.

“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part in it! You know that, I beg you — please!”

“Get up!” Joffrey demanded, voice like stone.

Sansa could not react fast enough, so The Hound pulled her to her feet instead, though his grasp on her arm was surprisingly gentle. The feeling of not being able to breathe intensified as Sansa looked at the anger and cold in Joffrey’s face and the way his hands were white where they gripped the, now completely wound, crossbow. It was aimed right at her. The sound of the dying cat was too loud in her ears and seemed to reverberate in time with the pounding of her heart.

“Ser Lancel, tell the _Lady_ Sansa of this outrage.” There was something very unkind about the way he sneered the word Lady — as if it was a curse.

“Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain.”

Sansa’s throat felt as if it were closing off, as if she was breathing through a reed. Her head reeled, her heart screamed, but her voice had deserted her. She wanted to yell at Joffrey that Robb would never do that kind of vile thing — that last part. Of the victory, she had no doubt, but it was war wasn’t it? She could not speak. Her tongue was too thick, too big for her mouth. The room felt as if it was closing in around her, and she was a moment from complete panic.

“You have nothing to say?” asked Joffrey.

“The poor child is shocked witless,” Ser Dontos said, though Sansa barely heard him.

Dontos. He had tried to speak to her after she had saved his life on Joffrey’s name day, but Sansa has said only, “I appreciate your thanks, but I must go now,” with her new dead tone, eyes hollow as usual. She could not risk being seen with a man who raised Joffrey’s ire. Ever. She already walked on a wire as it was without added risks. She tried not to think about the visit to the Black Cells. Risks like that. She had been completely unable to resist that, but Ser Dontos the Drunk she could resist.

“Silence, fool!”

Now, Joffrey’s raised crossbow was pointed at Sansa’s face. She tried not to flinch but wasn’t at all sure she managed. Everything in her screamed at her to _run_, but she couldn’t. Not now. Joffrey would shoot her if she moved.

“You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I’ve not forgotten how your monster savaged me.”

The response came before Sansa could stop it, bursting forth like an unwanted wave of sickness, “That was Arya’s wolf!” As soon as she said it, Sansa regretted it. Arya’s wolf might be out of reach, but Arya herself was not. And Sansa would never forgive herself if Joffrey also turned his wrath on Arya too. Joffrey seemed to understand what Sansa was thinking when she could not mask the horror sliding across her face.

The words came tumbling out against her will again. “Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway!”

“No. Would that I had, but your father did that. But, when I kill him, well, that will be far more satisfying, so I really can’t complain. I’ve been practicing, actually. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some _baker_, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat. Then, he was quiet.” Joffrey laughed an ugly laugh.

“A..and he died?” Sansa got out. Anything to get him off the topic of her father, Arya, wargs, the direwolves…

Joffrey looked at her as if one might look at a simpleton. “Of course he died. He had my quarrel in his throat.” He continued, “There was a woman throwing rocks; I got her as well, but only in the arm.” He frowned. “I’d shoot you too, but Mother and Grandfather forbid it. Instead, they still expect me to marry you. And Grandfather says they’d kill my Uncle Tyrion. He’s worthless, but Grandfather still seems to care if he’s murdered — can’t see why. Instead, you’ll just be punished. After all, I have to make you into a good, obedient wife.”

“Your Grace, I will be the perfect wife and do all that you say. Please.” Sansa’s legs were shaking beneath her dress.

Joffrey frowned more and Sansa flinched. That had been the wrong answer. ‘Stupid, stupid. He didn’t want you to say anything,’ she berated herself. It was too late now.

“Oh of course you will. I’ll make sure of it. But that is not our subject today. Instead, you’ll be punished and we’ll send word to your brother about what will happen to you, your ugly sister, and your father if he doesn’t yield. And it is a fitting punishment.” The gleam in his eyes terrified Sansa right to her very core. She was not sure how long her wobbling legs would hold her.

Joffrey turned to Ser Meryn, “I want to _see_ her when she’s punished. Make her naked!”

Sansa barely had a chance to gasp before Ser Meryn was on her, hands ripping, tearing at her bodice, her corset, her shift. She did not fight or yell. The sounds and protests caught in her throat and the fear made her body numb and stiff though the terror and humiliation in her eyes was so poignant even The Hound looked away from her. Sansa tried so hard, but the tears started sliding down her cheeks unbidden and unchecked as Ser Meryn threw her ripped clothing on the ground, piece by pice while Joffrey looked on, unchecked glee and pleasure in his eyes.

And when Sansa stood bare to the world, her tears, silent as they were, only increased as she tried to use her hands to hide her breasts and woman’s place but simply couldn’t cover everything. Not even her hair was a help, twisted up as it was. Her face was burning with shame as the entire court stared at her nakedness. She wanted to give in right then, fall to the ground and cry without getting up, but she couldn’t. Arya and their father’s safety depended on her keeping Joffrey’s mind off them as much as possible.

She tasted the saltiness of the tears that reached her lips, and she came to accept the fact that she could not hide her body. Especially not when Joffrey said, “Stop hiding! I said I wanted to see you!”

With her face burning as if it was aflame, Sansa forced her hands to drop away, but she would not meet Joffrey’s eyes. She looked anywhere but at him.

He noticed that too. “Look at me!”

A tiny sound, a whimper, escaped her throat and made Joffrey _smile_.

“Please, Your Grace. Please. I… I am sorry for the wrongs I and my family have committed but… please allow me to get dressed again.” She knew her pleas would like as not fall on deaf ears, but she had to try. Her skin felt as if it was burning under the stares of the hundreds of people in the Throne Room. She had never felt so degraded in her entire life.

Joffrey only laughed. “I think not. This is rather too much fun, don’t you think?” He was addressing both her and the crowd at once. “Now that I can see you properly for this, we shall proceed.”

Sansa’s throat felt dry even though tears coated her cheeks. Was he not done with her? Would he never be? She would have given anything to be able to flee, to run to her chambers and never, ever come out again. How was she ever to look into the faces of anyone in the Red Keep again after this, after they had all seen her stand naked in the middle of the court?

“The members of my Kingsguard are assembled here. Minus, of course, my Uncle Jaime who is on the battlefield right now, working to bring me your brother’s head.” He paused for a minute. “Look at them, you fool!”

Sansa turned her face toward the six members of the Kingsguard but tried to look anywhere other than their eyes.

“Do you see them, Sansa?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Her voice was so soft and she could barely force out the words.

“Look upon them well.”

Sansa would have moaned if she could, but forced her eyes off the ground to pass over each member of the Kingsguard. She noted that the Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy, was the only one to avert his eyes from her. For that, she silently thanked him.

“Your brother currently holds 12 Lannister hostages and Tyrion makes 13 — or maybe 12 and a half.” Joffrey laughed at his own joke, but then stopped abruptly and continued. “You must be duly punished so The Young Wolf knows what happens to those who cross the true king of Westeros. For every one of those hostages, you will receive a lash with this whip.” Joffrey’s mean lips parted into a grin as he watched Sansa’s eyes dart back to his and fill with fear as she took in the centuries old dragonhide braided whip he had commanded Ser Ilyn Payne to find for him amongst the Red Keep’s vast collection of armaments. A whip capable of ‘real’ damage he had ordered, and Ser Ilyn had delivered. “Two from each member of the Kingsguard present and Three from the Lord Commander.”

Barristan Selmy stared mutely up at Joffrey Baratheon in disbelief. Then, he looked for the presence of the Queen Regent or the Lord Hand, but saw neither. This had already gone much too far, was wildly out of hand. This young king was a horror to rival Aerys for true. He had averted his eyes from Sansa Stark the entire time Ser Meryn stripped her, refusing to look upon the young lady’s shame. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of the whip, heard it sing and meet flesh.

Sansa had told herself she would not cry out, no matter how badly it hurt, but when the whip licked her skin she screamed. It was Ser Boros who had control of it, and Sansa could not tell if it was the speed with which he had swung it or the braided dragonhide which caused such agony when it bit deep into her skin. Sansa looked over her shoulder and saw a deep cut dripping red with blood across her shoulder. Before she could even breathe, a second laceration formed an X across her back and she let out a second cry of agony, trying to curl into a ball, but Ser Meryn grabbed her by the arm and flipped her onto her stomach again so that his lashes would go across the back of her legs and her ass. She could not stifle her cries, but she knew better than to beg Joffrey to stop them. He wouldn’t. In fact, he might increase the number. Sansa was not sure she would survive thirteen lashes. Blood already coated her pale skin and her entire back felt as if it was on fire. It amazed her that each new lash could still hurt as her back and legs turned completely red with blood, but each one did.

Ser Barristan stared at the girl on the floor in abject horror, but his mind was elsewhere, filled with disquiet as he remembered a night not unlike this one when Aerys had burned his hand Lord Chelsted. He had to specify the night because Chelsted was not the only Hand Aerys had fed to the fire and far from the only person.

&&

_Barristan stood beside the King as he watched the fire begin to lick at Chelsted’s feet and the man began to began and plead and then scream in agony as the flesh of his feet turned black. His screams were horrible as they echoed off the walls of the Throne Room. The flames licked up his legs and as pieces of skin sloughed off, they made a horrible sizzling sound dropping to the pyre beneath._

_Aerys looked on with a light in his eyes, a mad gleam, that Ser Barristan saw only when Aerys burned someone. Sad it was that Aerys had burned so many people that Selmy knew his proclivities by now and knew that mad look. He felt absolutely sick as he noted Aerys slide his hand down to unlace his breeches part way to relax the tightness on his raging erection, and he knew that night the Queen would have a visitor in her chambers. The knowledge made Barristan grit his teeth._

_He was not wrong. As the flames reached the inner part of Lord Chelsted’s thighs, Aerys apparently decided he had seen enough and swept from the room with purpose toward Queen Rhaella’s chambers. Ser Barristan followed at a distance unable to stop the cringe that went through his body. He paused in the corridor as Aerys swept into the Queen’s chamber. When he had withdrawn inside, Ser Jaime and Ser Jon resumed their positions guarding the door. Something stopped him from joining them. Perhaps it was the distraction (and horror) of Rhaella’s cries, far from those of passion or pleasure, that were soon added to the litany of hideous sounds, for he could still hear Lord Chelsted’s agonized screaming and wished for the poor man’s sake that pain would take him._

_Ser Jaime’s face was taut, worried, horrified. The youngest of the Kingsguard, he had not learned to school his features like the others._

_“We are sworn to protect her as well,” Jaime said, green eyes deeply troubled._

_“We are.” Jon was quiet for a moment. “But not from him.”_

&&

_Older but no wiser_, he thought mutely. Ser Barristan had not thought to find himself back in the same situation once more. Or at least one similar enough to make his conscience protest to the breadth of its ability.

“Here.” Ser Barristan was pulled back from his memory when the dragonhide whip was pressed into his hands. It felt entirely _wrong_ there. He held it and stared down at Sansa Stark lying prone on the floor. She was not moving save her back rising with shallow breaths. The floor of the throne room was a river of her blood, and it covered her like a hideous scarlet blanket, the flesh of her back torn to pieces and her hair sodden with her own blood and sticking in the open wounds in a way that looked incredibly painful.

It was too late for him to make another decision about Rhaella Targaryen, but not too late for him to make one for Sansa Stark.

“No,” He said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Joffrey stared at the old knight in something between fury and the confusion of a toddler about to have a temper tantrum.

“I said no.” Ser Barristan’s voice was steady though quiet. No one had to strain to hear him despite his quiet.

“Ser, you are defying an order from your king.”

Ser Barristan was quite well aware of that, but he said nothing merely keeping eye contact with Joffrey, refusing to break first.

“If you cannot follow through with the orders of your King, then you have become too old to effectively do your job.”

The old man looked confused for a short moment before a kind of understanding seemed to drift across his face. Still, he uttered out, “Your Grace, the Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust.”

“You let my father die. Clearly, you’re too old to protect anybody.”

Ser Barristan felt as if he had water in his ears, felt dizzy and sick and hot and cold all at once as he began to truly understand. Everything in him protested with a violence that surprised him. He had not felt so angry and sad at once in any time since his youth.

“Your Grace, I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up claim to my ancestral Keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place. I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows. To ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his. I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne, beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys and his father Jaehaerys before him… three kings…”

“Yes, and they’re all dead. Are you senile as well as old? Clearly so. Exactly the sort of man I want protecting me. No. That will not do. Perhaps… perhaps I will give your cloak to my Dog.” Joffrey turned his gaze on The Hound who jolted slightly in surprise as people turned to stare at him, finally for some reason other than his hideous face — though he couldn’t say he liked this reason any better. His eyes flicked to Ser Barristan.

Lord Varys spoke over the whispers that had begun to overtake the Throne Room. “I am sure the King is not unmindful of your service, good Ser,” the eunuch rushed to say. “Surely his grace will be generous and grant you a tract of land, a nice keep, even a lordship perhaps,” Varys looked up at Joffrey who seemed to be considering the proposal if it would rid him of the doddering old fool. He was much more interested in seeing his Dog’s investiture into the Kingsguard now that the idea had come to him.

Ser Barristan’s expression was sharp with anger, perhaps that was why he took less care with his words than he ought to. “A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords… but I spit upon your pity.” He forced his fingers not to shake as he undid the clasp of his white cloak and let it fall to the floor in a white pool around his feet, soaking up the blood of Sansa Stark. Next, he dropped his helmet with a clang and his silver breastplate went next with its white enamel scales. “I am a knight, and I shall die a knight.”

“A naked knight, it would seem,” quipped Littlefinger.

Barristan Selmy’s eyes blazed with fury.

Everyone seemed to think Littlefinger had said something extraordinarily amusing including the King and they began to laugh. Even the five other men of the Kingsguard were laughing. And, Sansa, from her pile of agony on the floor couldn’t help but think that surely that must hurt the worst — hurt even more than her wounds. The five men who had been his brothers until a moment ago, turned on him and laughed along with everyone else. Her heart ached for the old man, though she did not dare speak. She did not think she could move to lift her head anyway. She was in too much pain.

She heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed and the steps of boots moving forward to meet it, right over the top of her aching body. _No, please_.

But Ser Barristan only flung his sword at Joffrey’s feet. “Have no fears, sers, your king is safe. No thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easily as a dagger cuts cheese. Not a one of you is fit to wear the white.” Ser Barristan regarded both his old sword and Joffrey with contempt, a hot anger licking his belly and rushing to his head. This was the kind of display he had not made since he had earned his nickname: Barristan the Bold. Yet, he couldn’t seem to stop. “Melt it down, add it to the others.” He gestured to the sword. “It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne.”

A gasp was raised from the crowd as Joffrey’s face slowly reddened in fury.

Sansa forced herself to sit up, cringing at the agony her back punished her with for daring it. She stared at that old, proud knight who did not seem afraid. Sansa had been wrong, she realized. True knights did exist, but perhaps the last one turned on his heel and stalked toward the great doors of the throne room.

“Seize him! He could be making plots with my uncles! What are you waiting for? I want him seized and questioned at once!”

“What is the meaning of this?”

The voice was loud and sharper than the whip Sansa had been struck with. She looked over her shoulder, still trying to shield her breasts, little matter that it made now, and saw Lord Tywin Lannister standing by the great doors from which Ser Barristan Selmy had just departed. Now, the crowd was turning to look at the Hand with interest — clearly curious to see what he would do.

Lord Tywin took in the scene before him with equal parts mounting anger, shock, and revulsion. Sansa Stark lay bloody, her back a carnage, and naked in the center of the throne room floor, the room was crowded with people, the five remaining knights of the Kingsguard stood untroubled and unmoving and Joffrey was still shrieking about wanting Ser Barristan seized which was the _last_ of their concerns at present moment.

“Ah Grandfather! How good of you to join us. I was just dealing with the transgressions of my betrothed and offering the newly opened place on the Kingsguard to my sworn shield, The Hound. A fitting choice, don’t you think?”

Tywin stared at his grandson, light green eyes filled with abject fury. “You. Have gone too far, boy.” Tywin bit off each word short and taut, seeming to struggle mightily to keep himself under control. “You are done _now_.” Tywin looked down at Sansa Stark on the floor. “Get dressed, girl.”

Sansa struggled to get to her feet and grab the ripped pieces of her dress, but could not even make it onto her knees without gasping in agony. She would never be able to dress even if the ripped, bloody rags were fit for it — they weren’t.

“I will assign someone to the Kingsguard, but it is not going to be Sandor Clegane.” Tywin turned to The Hound. “Without offense, you aren’t even a knight.”

“No offense taken. Wouldn’t wanna be on your Kingsguard anyway.”

Joffrey seethed in anger, fists balling as he stared down Sandor Clegane. “If you weren’t my Hound, I’d beat you bloody for that.”

“Like you did her? Give me some more pretty scars to go with my face?” The Hound asked, laughing bitterly.

Joffrey grabbed for the crossbow, but Tywin was faster, knocking the weapon from his Grandson’s hands. “You. Are. Done. Now.” This time he repeated the words enunciating each one. The crossbow hit the floor and a crack fissured up its ornate wooden side. The sight couldn’t help but make Sansa almost grin despite her pain.

“With me. _Now_!” Tywin bellowed, grasping Joffrey’s arm so hard the boy actually squeaked. He tried to pull away, but Tywin had him firmly. “And someone deal with that!” Tywin indicated Sansa as he bore Joffrey off.

Sansa felt herself lifted and realized The Hound was holding her. He had wrapped his black cloak around her shoulders. It wasn’t the cleanest or newest, but she could have kissed him for it as it covered her shame. However, the movement of him lifting her and trying to shift her into a position to carry her that did not put weight on any of her whipping cuts had Sansa borne away on a wave of pain.

With Tywin leading Joffrey away and no further instruction, the throne room irrupted in chaos.

_In that chaos, no one saw the pale face of a waif-like girl with hair cropped close to her head and a writ of dismay all across her face, disappear into the crowd._

* * *

The drapes were drawn and the fire in the hearth was high and hot. The smell in the room was one of inherent sickness. The boiled wine made her head spin and the acrid scent of vinegar burned her nose. There was a thick, bitter-sweet scent of herbs lingering in the air like incense hung in a sept.

Sandor had brought her back to her room and retreated to look for Grand Maester Pycelle, but the fool was nowhere to be found leaving him to see to Sansa’s wounds himself. He was not, Sandor reflected, the worst with wounds. He’d managed plenty of his own throughout years of fighting, but he still would have preferred Sansa be tended to by a proper Maester. Of course, the Lannisters could not even see she got that. It was as if Tywin Lannister had completely forgotten the wounded girl on the floor once she had been removed from his sight. Mayhaps he had.

Sandor did not relish the mess the King’s Hand now had to mollify what with Joffrey having dismissed the singular most gifted knight on the Kingsguard and Joffrey’s response to the riot outside the gates to the Red Keep the previous night of which he had boasted today. And that was all without the rumors that would, no doubt, make their way to Robb Stark’s ears about today’s nightmare. No, he could well understand (though not forgive) that Tywin had completely forgotten to send anyone to attend to Sansa’s care.

He had spread a clean linen, grasped out of the hands of a startled young laundry maid who squeaked and didn’t look at his face, across Sansa’s bed.

They never looked at his face and he preferred it such. They were scared of him, and that was fine. It did not give him any respect for those too craven to look upon it even so. It was not lost on him that, as of late, Sansa did not avoid his gaze — had not ever since that night of the Hand’s Tourney when he had drunkenly told her of his childhood miseries. Looking back on it, he wondered why he’d been such a fool to share those things he did not share with anyone with Sansa Stark. Sometimes, he still wondered why he had.

Once Sansa was deposited, he returned to his own chambers to gather wine and other such supplies as he figured he might need. They were not fancy, just the same sorts of things he treated his own injuries with after a spar — or an actual fight more often. They’d do well enough; they’d have to.

First, he washed the blood out of her hair as best he could in her current position. That part didn’t seem to bother her, but he didn’t have to touch the ruined mess that had been the skin of her back to do it.

Sansa was very quiet as he next coaxed the fire to life and boiled the wine over it and mixed things in a bowl with a mortar and pestle. Her wounds hurt her too much to speak and, like as not, the horror of the day had not yet worn off. It was better that way. Sandor never knew what to do with the Little Bird’s idle chatter anyway. Though, he had noticed, she was less prone to that nowadays.

Finally, Sandor sat on the edge of the bed and placed the kettle of boiled wine on the dressing table, which he had pulled near to use as a work space. He regarded Sansa for a moment before sighing and saying, “This is going to fucking hurt, and I’m no maester with milk of the poppy.”

Sansa grit her teeth, “Just do it.”

She did not think it could possibly hurt worse than what had already been done.

She was wrong.

It was only by biting down on the linen beneath her that Sansa managed to keep from howling with pain as The Hound began to dab a cloth soaked in the wine against the cuts that ran the length and breadth of Sansa’s back. Her entire body shook as Sandor pressed the cloth against her wounds again and again. She knew he was just making sure none of them were left unclean, but it also felt as if he was torturing her. She wanted to beg him to stop, but knew the wounds had to be cleaned. She’d be receiving the same treatment from Grand Maester Pycelle. Yes, he might have given her milk of the poppy, but Sansa did not trust him enough for that — did not trust anyone in King’s Landing enough for that. No matter how agonizing the treatment was, at least she was awake and could try to defend herself if it were to go wrong.

“Breathe, Little Bird. It hurts worse if you don’t.” His voice was surprisingly tender, perhaps the most Sansa had ever heard it in fact. It wasn’t a tone she was used to from him and it did soothe her more than she might have expected. She tried to follow instructions and took some shuddering breaths. He was right that it did seem to help the burn of the alcohol at least a little — that or she was simply getting used to the pain.

Finally, Sandor was satisfied with his work and set down the wine-soaked cloth. Sansa’s cuts were cleaned thoroughly and all the blood was gone, though the room still smelled of it where it lingered in the fabric of the cloak he had carried her upstairs in and the rags he had used to clean off the excess blood before he started with the boiled wine treatment so scabs would not form. “Scabs aren’t good for wounds. They trap infection,” he had grumbled in explanation. Gods knew how many times the maester at Clegane Keep had told him that while cleaning Sandor’s wounds as a boy — months of ointments, tinctures, wine baths. He supposed he had his life but sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t have been more a blessing if he had died back then and saved everyone the trouble.

Sansa watched from her peripheral vision as Sandor washed his hands and then cleaned them with the wine as well before reaching for the mortar on the table. “This should feel all right. Let me know if it doesn’t.”

Sansa nodded, waiting, unsure what he was going to do. When he first moved, she leaned up slightly to try to look over her shoulder, though the movement caused a grimace. The Hound’s only response was to push her gently back to the bed. “Take care before you re-open those cuts.” His voice was harsh, but Sansa could hear the caring note in it all the same and she laid still.

The salve he spread across her skin felt like cool water on a hot day and Sansa actually let out a small sigh of relief as Sandor spread it across her cuts. It seemed to quench the fire that had been burning in her skin ever since the whip had left its bloody marks and the wine had cleansed them. “What is that?”

“Paste of goldenrod, aloe, and arnica. Should keep the bleeding to a minimum and help the swelling and bruising.”

“It feels good,” Sansa admitted, feeling slightly relieved at the surprisingly gentle brush of fingers and soothing mixture gliding across her cuts. “Have you used this before?”

“Sure. Ingredients aren’t hard to get. Most every soldier’s used stuff like this to patch himself up — or a field medic did.”

“Did you always want to be a soldier?”

Sandor barked out a laugh, “Yeah. I suppose that’s the one thing I wanted I actually got isn’t it.” The question was rhetorical and Sansa now knew too much about Sandor’s past to question its jadedness. She couldn’t help but wonder what his dreams had been before Gregor had burned him, but she also knew better than to ask. Questions made Sandor shut down, and Sansa was actually surprised he had indulged her in speaking this much. Perhaps he was only trying to distract her from her wounds, though if that was his reasoning she was grateful as it had worked.

“There. Now, do you think you’re able to stand? I’ll be able to bandage you up better if you can.”

“I think so,” Sansa said. The movement of her muscles caused her to cringe, but she did manage to lift herself to her knees and then The Hound pulled her the rest of the way to her feet as carefully as he could. He could not help but be slightly amused, though unsurprised, when Sansa brought the linen with her, hiding the front of her body from him even after all he had seen thus far.

He supposed she was probably one of the few true ladies he had ever known — his mother and sister being two other notable examples. They would hate what he had become and so he pushed the memories away like an angry storm cloud chases sunshine. He had been doing well at forgetting until Sansa Stark had come to tear down his carefully constructed refusal to think on them.

He took a fresh bed linen that he had cut to be as close to size as he could guess her to beand wrapped it around her from behind and wrapping it thrice such that it was snug and supportive, “This isn’t too tight?”

It was Sansa’s turn to laugh. “If corsets were this loose, I doubt even Arya would complain of wearing one. Yes, it’s fine.”

“I know those are supposed to be tighter,” The Hound groused, shooting Sansa an annoyed look. “But you don’t want it to be that tight.”

“No, I don’t.” She agreed. Sansa could not imagine the agony of a laced corset just now; even slight movements of her body hurt, let alone tight lacings.

Sandor pulled the edges of the linen together and tucked it expertly with no knots like any proper field medic would do. None of them were as good as maesters, but most maesters he didn’t trust anyway. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d put a knot in the back anyway as he knew full well Sansa wouldn’t be laying on her back for weeks, but it seemed he should do it the proper way even so.

“Try and see if you can move now,” The Hound directed.

Sansa was able to take a shuddering step forward and one more. It was enough for him to decide he had done the bandage to his liking and that it was going to stay tied. “That’s enough. No need to over do it either,” He said firmly.

Sandor pulled the bloodied, wine-soaked, salved linen off the bed and tossed it in the floor to deal with later. He turned down the comforter and snug bed linens beneath it and arranged the pillows quite comfortably as he could for a person who would need to sleep on their stomach. Once satisfied, he took Sansa by the arms and helped her sit back down on the bed and lay over onto her stomach, which was the only way she could lay without agony. Sansa curled her head into the pillow with her hands beside her face, suddenly realizing how weary she was.

“You need to eat something,” The Hound decided watching her pragmatically.

Sansa shook her head with a slight moan as she thought about food. Even the mention of it currently made her stomach churn. Both emotionally and physically, the day had taken its toll on her, and she knew she would not be able to eat. “I couldn’t.”

“At the very least, I’m going to get you some tea to help you sleep.”

True to his word, Sandor returned in less than ten minutes with a cup of tea. When he held it out to her and she shifted up high enough to accept the cup, the smell that rose to greet her instantly took her back to her childhood and had tears pricking in her eyes. It was chamomile just like Maester Luwin made for them as children when, for one reason or another, they’d been unable to sleep. _I hope you, and Bran, and Rickon are safe and happy_. “Thank you,” Sansa said, taking a sip of the tea.

“Don’t thank me. You need anything else?” He stepped forward and lifted the comforter and blankets over her once Sansa was settled.

“No. I’m fine.”

The Hound nodded. His eyes and his demeanor were closing off quickly even reflected in him stepping back from her, putting physical distance between them. Sansa could not understand his reaction. She did not think she had done anything to offend him. But she also knew she could not truly understand Sandor Clegane either. Perhaps one day she would. “I’ll come back tomorrow to change the bandages.” His voice was detached now, but Sansa knew his words were good. She was too tired, suddenly feeling the weight of the day as she sipped her tea, to puzzle out why he had started to act oddly. Maybe tomorrow. Her eyes would barely stay open for her to finish the last of the tea.

&&

The Hound stalked away from Sansa’s bedchamber and through Maegor’s Holdfast with heavy footfalls and the billow of a black cloak behind him. It still had Sansa’s blood on it, but he supposed it’d wash. He’d had plenty of blood on his clothing before.

In the corridor, he ran into a young maid who looked particularly cowed at him when she made the mistake of not looking down fast enough and saw the mangled mess of his face. In a foul temper, he lunged toward her like the dog he was in recrimination for her ridiculousness — as if he could do something to her just because of his hideous face. The maid shrieked and hurried away. It was not his face she ought to fear he thought sullenly. His hands could snap her neck, his sword could open her from cunt to throat, but it was his harmless, if ugly, face she could not stand to see. Fool girl.

Sandor stalked on until he reached the dry moat at the entrance of Maegor’s. In the outer bailey of the Red Keep, rain sheeting almost horizontal in the strong wind accosted him due to an autumn storm. It was slightly hard to see in the darkness and the onslaught, but The Hound made his way through it all the same, barely seeming to notice the inclement conditions. Perhaps it was the terrible expression on his face, but no spoke to him, much less delayed him. Or, perhaps, it was simply the misery of the weather.

With every step, his boots pounded into the cobblestone streets and carried him away from the Red Keep, which was all the better. He went past the Street of Silk and Eel Alley soon finding himself in the maze of Pigrun Alley. The buildings here were so dilapidated that they leaned dangerously to the side, so far over that they nearly touched at an arch over the alley below — not that this was much a feat given how narrow the alley was, barely wide enough for a single wagon to pass one direction at a time.

It was here that Sandor frequented the taverns and brothels. The purse he had won at the Hand’s Tourney was more than sufficient to fund him to visit an establishment as fine as Chataya’s every night for the rest of his life with plenty left over if he’d wanted. He didn’t want. The Hound knew he could never feel comfortable amongst those girls in their airy silks and near upper-class ways. He wasn’t fit for it anyway. The whores in Pigrun Alley already charged him double what other men were charged, so he could only imagine how those pretty, empty-headed women at Chataya’s would likely react. It was humiliating to be charged such and know exactly why, but what choice did he have really? He was a man and still had a man’s needs. So, this is where he came; where everyone else was no better than he was — their reasons for being so were just different.

Inside the dingy brothel he most often frequented, he sat down heavily and waited for the barkeep to get to him. With the wind and rain, the place was crowded tonight as the denizens of Flea Bottom sought refuge from the weather. Here, at least, no one stared at him.

“Girl and a drink?”

“Only cunt I’m interested in is the one the Green Lady of Misery’s got to offer. And then I want to be _alone_,” he growled. The barkeep was familiar, was one of the few people The Hound could call something like an acquaintance — not a friend because The Hound had no friends. That required trust, and it was better not to trust anyone. Trust got you killed. Still, he couldn’t help but growl at him (and everyone else) all the same.

“Who pissed in your boot?” The barkeep had seen The Hound in worse moods over the years, but he seemed particularly nasty this evening.

“If you don’t get me some alcohol, it’s your boot I’ll piss in,” The Hound said in annoyance. He did not want to talk. His acquaintance got the message and went off to see to The Hound’s demands. He gestured him off to one of the rooms at the quieter end of the building — none of it was quiet, but it was the most he’d get. The man went without delay and looked up with something almost like relief when the barkeep came in with a tray bearing the Green Lady of Misery he’d ordered. “Now just leave me alone. I don’t want to be bothered. Bring me another of these in an hour.”

The barkeep raised an eyebrow, gave a slight shake of the head and left. The Hound was bound for a morning with his head worshipping a chamber pot, but he’d been drinking long enough to know that already, so the barkeep didn’t comment, just left him alone.

The Hound dumped in the green spirit and then set the spoon and sugar atop it. This done, he poured cold water over it. No doubt, some girl had been sent out in the weather to Alysanne’s fountains to retrieve cold enough water. He waited, stirred, and drank deep, barely tasting the bitterness. He had chased down the Green Lady of Misery in mere minutes and cared little. Though, the second one, when it arrived, he drank more slowly while brooding at a murky window down which water ran in rivulets.

He did not know how to deal with the feelings today had forced him to confront. The Hound did not feel. The Hound was simply a dog, a cur, walking at his master’s heels and doing what he was supposed to do. He was not made for this. He was not made to see a pretty, young girl stripped and beaten bloody for no reason but Joffrey’s sadistic pleasure, and then care for her while memories of Hazel washed over him unchecked, much as he tried to force them away. He could not manage.

He ordered a third round of the Green Lady of Misery.

Godsdamn them. Fucking Godsdamn them all.

* * *

It had been forty-four days since Cersei had seen Jaime, and already she missed him almost more than she knew how to bear.

She always missed him when they were apart, of course, but the strain of the last seven weeks had, perhaps, been worse than any she had endured in all the years she had been in King’s Landing. Not only did she have to cope with being separated from her soul mate, her twin —the person that everything in the world felt _wrong_ if he wasn’t beside her —she also had to cope with her life being turned upside down faster than she could rectify it. Jaime was the only person she trusted unequivocally. If he were by her side, he would know what to do, and she could trust his counsel. Instead, she was in the den of vipers alone and struggling with realizations she did not want to be having. But Cersei had no choice but to move forward and to manage. Without Jaime.

The strain without him took its toll. She was exhausted, and her head ached almost constantly. Those knots he had massaged out of her shoulders were back with double the force. Joffrey was constantly either causing some sort of disaster to be dealt with or hosting a feast. Once, she’d have enjoyed the feasts if nothing else. Right now, they just served as a worry. She was too anxious to enjoy such trivialities: she didn’t want to dance or eat or make merry. She could not stop her head from racing.

Cersei had always hated being weak. She had hated being out of control. She hated that people looked upon her as being incapable of strength, control, cunning, and wise decision making just because she was a woman. And the events which had transpired over the last few weeks had only served to make her feel the weakest and most ineffectual she had ever felt. If Jaime had been here, he’d have reassured her. Perhaps he would not have been able to stop this wreck anymore than she (apparently) could not, but at least his arms would be around her and, she would know everything was okay. Because everything was always okay when Jaime’s arms were there for her.

And the Gods knew there had been no end to the slew of incredibly nightmarish incidents. No matter what she did, it was like a wheelhouse running completely out of control picking up momentum as it went, with her left to watch. But today’s nightmare, well, today’s took the pigeon pie, so to speak. And her Lord father had done absolutely nothing to stop it! Stripping Sansa Stark in front of the court, having Sansa beaten in front of the court, and dismissing Ser Barristan Selmy — in one fell swoop. Cersei was struggling to fathom which of the incidents was the worst.

She was ready to be done courting one nightmare after another. And her father had _allowed_ today’s folly? What on earth could he have possibly been thinking?

As evening faded to black, Cersei bore herself off to the tower of the hand and gave a firm knock. ‘Enter!’ she heard her father command.

Cersei opened the door and let herself in, closing it behind her. “Would you like to explain what happened this afternoon?” She asked. She was barely managing to keep her voice steady. Generally, her father was an excellent participant in the game of thrones, but clearly that had not been the case today.

Tywin Lannister looked at his daughter. His gaze, with his gold flecked green eyes, was something frightening to behold. “What happened today is simply what happened today. It is not my preferable course of events, but it is not as though it can be changed now.” He looked back to a paper on his desk. The response was plain enough ‘I know, and I’m not bothered.’ But he should be bothered!

Cersei knew her eldest son, knew what he’d been thinking. Godsdammit, she loved him so much, but sometimes lately she despised him too: a terrifying realization to say the least. Joffrey had done this for amusement, a jape to see his ‘dog’ in a white cloak on the Kingsguard. She would have placed gold on it. At least, Tywin had not allowed that.

“What happened today lost us one of the most valuable members of the Kingsguard and will enrage the Starks when word finally gets to them — and it will given the entire court bore witness!”

Tywin Lannister looked up at his daughter and could feel his anger building. He did not like having his decisions questioned. He especially didn’t like having his actions questioned by his child — and a woman. “We are already at war with the North, and Selmy is old and ineffectual. He failed to protect the late king.”

Much as Cersei had despised Robert, she knew that Tywin’s words were just a convenient excuse. Selmy had had no more responsibility in Robert’s death than had any of the other Kingsguard. She might prefer that the entire Kingsguard were Lannister-aligned — the better to keep herself and her children safe, but dismissing Ser Barristan, especially under these conditions, seemed rash.

Not to mention, Cersei could not fail to recognize that Ser Barristan, old though he might be, was probably the most talented member of the Kingsguard excepting perhaps Jaime — it was always a close match between the two when they sparred. However, Jaime wasn’t here, and in a time where her priority was to keep her children safe, losing someone with such talent did not please her.

She could also see that her words had not pleased her father. Let him be angry. She was angry too.

Tywin would never have responded well to such a direct charge, for Cersei was plain that she believed the fiasco to be his doing, but the raven he had received earlier that day had sealed the fate on his absolute fury with his daughter.

The contents of that letter… well, it was not the kind of thing they could afford just now. Sometimes he wondered how all three of his children had come partially from his own body. Jaime, the fool who seemed intent on throwing away everything Tywin offered him — even Tywin’s beloved Casterly Rock; Cersei, the girl who presumed far too much and needed to return to her embroidery and look for another marriage — not that that would be easy given the raven of today; and Tyrion, the little monster who had killed his beloved Joanna and spent his time staining the family name by cavorting with whores and drinking himself into comas all over King’s Landing. All three were a disappointment to the name Lannister.

Tywin Lannister rose, standing behind his desk, resting his palms on its top. Fury filled his face and made him flush. “Need I remind you that I am the hand of the king, and these decisions are left to _me_.” His voice had an edge of danger to it as sharp as a sword.

Cersei’s green eyes narrowed. “Need I remind you that I am the Queen Regent!”

“As you said, you are the _Queen_ regent.”

Cersei did not miss his implication regarding her sex. Her anger flared and, for just a moment, she exemplified the words of House Baratheon as much as House Lannister: ‘Ours is the Fury.’ Yes, this was her fury, and she would let it show. She would not suffer to be put in a gilded cage like some pet to sing pretty songs but have no other purpose. _I’ll show him what it means to put a lion in a cage_. “And as the Queen regent, I would have you do something to fix this nightmare.”

Tywin’s face was a mask of fury. “I will pretend, for the love I bear you, that you did not have so much insolence as to presume to lecture me. I suggest you mark well _never_ to display such impudence in my presence again,” Tywin growled.

Cersei’s eyes burnt like wildfire. “Do _not_ presume to relegate me as ineffectual! All of our lives you have favored Jaime. Have you failed to notice that Jaime despises politics and wants no part in it? Have you failed to realize that _I_ am the one who enjoys — ”

Tywin’s fury crested like a white-capped wave on the Sunset sea.

“_Jaime_.” Tywin’s voice held a note of something that should have made Cersei cautious, should have made her draw back, but it did not. “You have reminded me of something that I intended to discuss with you before you presumed to barge into my solar and instruct me on how I will or will not behave.” Tywin flung a letter across the desk at her with surprising force.

“_This_ is all over Westeros.” Cersei grasped for the letter and caught it. “You _will_ tell me the truth of this, which is that it is a lie: a sick, twisted, _disgusting_ lie! No child of mine has dared such an unnatural act of abomination!” Tywin was yelling now.

Cersei stared at the letter as her face paled. Somehow, she could not stop her hands from shaking even as she held the letter and read the words.

&&

_All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left _ _no_ _ trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the Light of the Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms._

&&

Cersei felt very much as if she was going to be sick. Her skin was clammy and her stomach was churning in knots as she thought about all the potential ramifications if anyone besides her Father saw this. But, how had he gotten this letter? ‘This is all over Westeros’ “What do you mean this is all over Westeros?” It was a true battle for Cersei to keep her voice level, to keep from betraying the truth (and her fear) in her voice or face. Her heart was pounding so forcefully she could hear it in her ears.

“Every city, every village, received this letter to be read out loud and then posted.”

If it was possible, Cersei’s face paled even more.

Clearly she did not do as good as job as she believed hiding her fear as Tywin snapped, “I can see you are afraid. Good. You should be afraid. Do you recognize what a precarious position this puts us in? Five kings claim a right to the Iron Throne; all are realistic claims. That does not change that they are undeserving, but people have united behind each all the same. Your son is a boy, a boy not of age for years. The country does not suffer regents well — especially in a time of war with autumn arrived.” Tywin leaned toward Cersei over the desk so their faces were too close together for her comfort. It took all she possessed not to step backward. She would not show weakness in front of Tywin Lannister. If it took everything she had, she would not show him her fear. It would only serve his beliefs about her as incapable.

Cersei lifted her chin, proudly. “My children are the heirs to House Baratheon. My son is the king. I am the queen regent. My children will rule Westeros and all Westerosi will bend the knee eventually,” Her words were surer than she felt. She wore a mask of confidence over the true face, the face of fear.

“You will tell me the complete truth, and you will do it now. Are your children the legitimate heirs of House Baratheon?”

Cersei met her father’s eyes with a gaze as fierce as his. “Yes.”

Who had fathered her children did not make them any less legitimate in Cersei’s eyes. Perhaps others would not have agreed with her. Perhaps the entire bloody realm would not have agreed. But she did not care. They had not been the ones who had to suffer marriage to Robert Baratheon. Not to mention, it wasn’t as if Robert had been successful at putting a baby in her belly with all his rutting around. And the one time he had… She almost shuddered at the memory. The one time he had, she had thought of how he had said ‘Lyanna’ on their wedding night. When she thought of it, she had not been able to bear the notion of carrying a piece of Robert within her. She found it difficult enough to accept his cock for the few miserable minutes it took him to be done taking his ‘rights.’ How could she carry and love his child? And she would not carry a child she could not love. Cersei knew what it was to grow up without love. She had had Jaime find a woman to cleanse her.

Tywin’s gaze was steady but as cold as the ice that made up the Wall.

‘Is it as cold as the ice in your soul, Father?’ Cersei thought to herself.

“So, you insist that the children are Robert’s. That is not the only charge that lays at your feet. You did not deny this horror, this shame regarding Jaime.”

Cersei struggled to keep a mask of indifference firmly on her face. She would not be afraid of Tywin Lannister. He was not _worth_ her fear. He was not worth her reverence. Once he had been. Once she had wanted him to take her into his favor and teach her the way he did Jaime. But he had not, and that time was past. She didn’t need him anymore. She would no longer let him control her. She had learned how to play the game without his help.

“You will tell the truth. You will deny this… this.. disgusting, abhorrent, repulsive, rumor. I will not have the name Lannister become synonymous with the term brother fucker!”

Cersei actually winced, though only slightly, at the last term. Yes, Jaime was her brother and her lover, but somehow the contempt, the judgment — not for herself but for Jaime — that echoed in that last word and the tone it was hurled at her with bothered Cersei more than she could say.

For just one moment, Cersei thought of Tyrion. There had never been any love lost between them. Cersei had never been able to forgive him for killing their mother. But sometimes she found him amusing. She could hear him asking ‘Have you left out any other adjectives for which I should atone, Father?’ Cersei was not foolish enough to do so. Tyrion would have been, but then again he ran on wine and self destruction, so that was no surprise. Nonetheless, she could appreciate the jape her brother surely would have said all the same.

“Tell me the truth. Tell me that you have not fucked your brother!”

Cersei understood. Tywin did not want to know the truth. Tywin was telling her what the truth was and expected her to parrot it back to him like a good little girl. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of controlling her anymore. It would be dangerous not to. She didn’t care.

She thought of Jaime. Jaime was strong, and Cersei felt strong when she was with Jaime, but Jaime wasn’t here. Jaime was gods knew where in the Riverlands fighting Robb Stark. Maybe it was time for Cersei to be strong alone somehow. One thing she knew was that she would not hear such words used against her other half, the only other person aside of her children who made her world complete. Cersei had long believed that she and Jaime were one soul split into two bodies constantly trying to find their way back together. She would not have him dishonored or maligned — not by anyone.

Cersei straightened her spine and stared into Tywin Lannister’s eyes with the force of a lioness.

She did not say a word.

The blow came before Cersei realized it was coming, catching her off guard. How it had, she didn’t know. Was she not used to Robert’s abuse? Had she not endured it for years? Tywin’s blow was harder than Robert’s (or had she just forgotten how harsh his were in the last few months without him around?) Tywin slapped her with force across one cheek and then across the other when she tried to turn her head out of the way. The garnet ring he wore on his finger split her lip on the second blow and she tasted blood. A bruise already bloomed across her left cheekbone.

_‘I shall wear this as a badge of honor.’_

_‘Wear it in silence or I shall honor you again!’_

**But Cersei did not want to be silent any longer.**

_“I will never let anyone hurt you. Never. If they try, I’ll kill them.”_

_“Never anyone else, never again.” “Never.” “Mine.” “My brother, my lover, my Jaime.” “Yours. Always.”_

_“I will kill the whole bloody lot of them until you and I are the only two people left in this world.”_

_“I am sick of being careful. Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it’s me you want.”_

_“Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies.”_

_“I’d give you my cloak and say the words.”_

_“My brother is worth a hundred of your men.”_

_“You beautiful golden fool!” “Yes, but I’m your beautiful golden fool.”_

_“No one will ever take me away from you.”_

_“What happened to your mouth?” “Well, it was healing before you happened to it.”_

_“All right. We can talk. As long as I can fuck you again after, sweet Cersei. And with decidedly less clothes. And you’ll put your mouth on my cock.”_

_“The Gods themselves couldn’t keep me away from you.”_

_“I am yours and you are mine.” “Yes.”_

**Cersei _would not_ be silent any longer**.

“I am in love with Jaime. I have loved Jaime for as long as I can remember. Jaime is my other half. I am not whole without Jaime. Jaime is my brother and my lover. Yes, I fucked Jaime. Yes, Jaime makes love to me, and he fills me and I am complete.”

Tywin stared at Cersei with a look so full of loathing and disgust that she might have been no more than a bug about to be crushed beneath the weight of his boot. Cersei had never seen that type of revulsion on someone’s face before. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet Cersei almost couldn’t hear it, but it was dangerous. The undertone was something fearsome to behold. It should have frightened her and brought her to her senses — or maybe she already was in her senses. “You want to recant that.”

“No.”

It was one word, but Cersei Lannister had never felt more powerful in her entire life.

Tywin drew his sword and its steel glinted in the sunlight from the window. Cersei watched the sword.

“Tell the truth, Cersei.”

“I love Jaime, I fucked Jaime, the children are ours and you _will not harm them_. Or you will see wrath like you have _never_ known. Jaime is my soulmate and I will always love him.I will love him and no one else.”

The sword flashed forward quicker than Cersei expected, but not so fast she couldn’t get her hands up to protect herself. She felt the cool metal bite into hot flesh and sucked in a breath as blood rose to the surface of her palms when she turned them to look at the damage. Tywin took that moment to deal another savage blow with the flat of his sword. This one struck Cersei full force in the chest and caused her to stumble backward, though she managed to catch herself before she fell.

“You will not stain the legacy I have worked my entire life to build. Take it back,” Tywin growled.

“No.”

This time the sword struck her in the ribs as she moved to turn out of the way, and a pain exploded through her side with the sword leaving behind an ugly bruised welt.

“You will tell me the truth! I will have the truth out of you, Cersei!” .

This is how it would be then. He meant to break her. She would not be broken. Not by him, not by anyone. She was a lioness of Lannister. Lionesses do not break.

The sword flashed again and the smack hit her in the hip and groin. Her eyes raised to Tywin with a fury he had never seen before in his daughter. Perhaps it should have frightened _him_, but it did not. He would have Cersei learn her place, learn what was acceptable, recant this despicable, revolting abomination so they could come up with some other decent explanation and move forward.

But she did not say a word this time when the sword hit her. She only kept those fury-filled eyes fixed on him.

Cersei refused to cry out despite how badly the blows hurt. He wanted her to cry, to beg, to repent and she would not do those things: not for Tywin Lannister, not for anyone. Instead, she did the only thing she knew to do. She went away inside. She went away to a place where Tywin Lannister could not reach her, to a place where she was safe in her memories with Jaime.

_Pivot, parry, thrust, up the center, bind! And in barely a second the tip of Cersei’s sword was against Jaime’s throat. It was so fast and smooth it took him by surprise before he could parry. “I yield!” Jaime said, tossing down his sword as he fell backwards into the soft grass breathing hard, his verdant green eyes shining with pure happiness — even if he had just technically lost. He let out a laugh too, a sweet, beautiful laugh; it was her favorite sound in all the world._

Then it seemed Tywin’s tactic changed. “You will never defile Jaime in such a way again nor yourself! Never again. Swear it.”

“No!"

“No?” His voice was so cold, without a touch of warmth.

“I won’t! Jaime is mine and I am his. And I will be with him and make love to him and he will make love to me for all of our days.” 

Tywin’s sword smacked Cersei’s shoulder.

_Cersei dropped her sword — admittedly they were just blunted practice swords — and collapsed in the tall grass beside Jaime. Her green eyes were shining with unadulterated joy. Jaime was slightly breathless, though from their closeness or the sword play it couldn’t be said. They lay shoulder to shoulder and he looked at Cersei and thought she was the most beautiful thing on earth with her slightly sweaty face, her hair coming down out of its braid she’d put it into to keep it out of the way, and her cheeks high with color._

_“You’re getting better, sister,” he told her, grinning at her as he looked at his yielded sword on the ground. When they were young, they had switched places at lessons with no one the wiser many times. But then she had gotten too old to be able to do it. Now, on the rare occasions he was home from Crakehall, he taught her in secret._

“Tell me you do not want to be a brother fucker anymore.”

“No!”

The sword smashed into Cersei’s stomach this time. 

_And they laid there together in the grass as her fingertips brushed his. Then, something, something Cersei recognized well, flickered in his eyes behind the joy, and he rolled on top of her and kissed her. Oh Gods how he kissed her. His lips were so hard and hot against her own, his tongue immediately delving into the softness that was her mouth. It turned her weak at the knees even though she was laying down. It made her head spin. Cersei forced herself to pull away, turning her head from his. “Jaime! We’ll be seen!” She hissed._

“You will not do disgusting, indecent things with Jaime. In fact, I will send you and Myrcella and Tommen back to Casterly rock while Jaime remains here to ensure you no longer behave in such a disgusting, despicable manner.”

“No!” The thought of being separated again was almost more than Cersei could bear.

The smack was over her thighs this time, blisteringly painful. She did not make a sound.

_“No.” He said firmly. “The grass will hide us.” And it was true that the grass on the cliff above the Sunset Sea, well outside the inner grounds of the keep, had been allowed to grow tall and wild. “Kiss me, Cersei. Please,” Jaime begged. And she kissed him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, the swords all but forgotten. Her mouth was on his and his on hers, their tongues dancing and stroking one another until they pulled away breathless. They dare not go any further here than kissing — even with tall grass. She reached to brush his golden waves of hair, just like her own, out of his eyes. “Gods, Cersei.” And so she kissed him again._

“Tell me you do not want Jaime anymore. Tell me or by the gods I will not stop until you do!”

Cersei did not speak, did not even look at him.

The blow was at her lower back this time, sending a cringing pain reverberating up her spine.

Her eyes were far away.

_They could never get enough of each other. His visits were infrequent and never long enough. Jaime wanted his cock in her every minute of every day. They stole every moment they could to sneak behind a closed door, a deserted hall here, a spare room there, and attack each other’s mouths fiercely and hold each other close. She loved Jaime more than life itself. She loved Jaime more than herself. She knew sometimes they were reckless: how quickly a door could open, a deserted hallway become no longer deserted, and yet the risk somehow made it all the more desirable. “Gods, Cersei. You are all I can think about. I only want you.” He breathed, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling his face into her sun warmed hair_.

“Say you do not want him!”

Cersei lifted her chin and refused to look at Tywin while another crushing blow rained down, this time on the back of her head and making her vision black at the edges for a moment,

“No! I won’t!” Because she thought about Jaime and what he would have said, and he never ever would have denied his love for her in this position, no matter the circumstances. Never. She would not deny him either — no matter what.

The next blow hit her knees and sent her toppling to the floor where Tywin loomed over her, large and menacing, sword in hand. She tried for the strength to get up but wasn’t sure her bruised and aching legs could hold her. When had he hit them? Was there anywhere he had _not_ hit her? Was the better question.

Cersei grit her teeth and forced herself to her feet. “I love Jaime and I choose him. Always.”

Before Tywin could hit her again, a knock came at the door that made both of them jump and Tywin’s eyes flick toward it holding an emotion Cersei could not define.

“Who is it?” His voice was obviously irritated.

“There is word from our troops in the Whispering Wood,” Kevan Lannister responded.

Tywin turned his gaze on Cersei who had pulled herself to her feet.

“This is not finished.”

Cersei only lifted her chin, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her entire body felt as if it had been mangled. Her skin was on fire both with bruises and cuts. The only pain worse that she had ever known was birthing her children. In some ways, this felt worse. There was nothing to find joy in this. Cersei forced herself to her feet and to stand straight and not to show the agony in every fiber of her being. He eyes glittered with anger rather than tears because Cersei Lannister would not be broken. She did not deign a response to her father’s comment that this was not finished.

After a long beat and a hard stare between them, Tywin looked at the door again, irritation clear in his features. Finally he slipped his sword back into its scabbard and said, “Enter.”

Cersei turned on her heel and marched from the room with an inscrutable expression on her face and without any indication of her pain, passing her uncle on the way in and nodding at him briefly before walking away from her father’s solar.

&&

In her chambers, Cersei called for a bath and some clean, cool water besides. When she had it, she dismissed all of her ladies and was completely alone. Only then did she shift down the shoulder of her gown.

The skin revealed was mottled red and purple and already swelling. Cersei poured the cool water into the wash basin and dipped a cloth into it and began to gingerly dab the cool water over the bruises on her shoulder. Every time she touched one, she winced. Her muscles seized as tight as coiled spring — especially her stomach and back. Those seemed, along with her chest, to have taken the most violent of the hits. Her hands were still sore and bloody, which make it difficult to undo her dress, but she would not have anyone see her this way. The only person she might have allowed to help was leagues away.

She continued with the dress, then all the underpinnings until it was just her smallclothes. She left bloody handprints on all the garments as she removed them. Her pale skin was a map of bruises, connecting one to another in hideous colors and already swelling. It all hurt. The ache was not just from her skin but deep inside as well. If it was possible for bones to ache, Cersei thought hers did. She tried to dab cool water on her lip, which was already swollen and a scab had begun to form at the split. It hurt so badly she cringed and stopped trying immediately.

Perhaps it was a good fortune Jaime was not here or he might add kinslaying to his list of crimes. Jaime would have been furious, perhaps even more-so than Cersei herself. Right now, she could not bring herself to be furious. She couldn’t bring herself to be anything except bone weary and in pain as she continued to try to dab cold water on the bruises. It was a poor substitute for ice or a maester’s soothing creams, but it would serve. The other option — to let someone know — was unthinkable.

Somehow, she felt more soiled than she had even after her wedding night. Robert had slipped into sleep very easily when it was over. Cersei had meticulously cleaned herself of his cum before donning a robe and going to sit at the window. She remembered curling into a ball and crying as she thought about the name he had said that hadn’t been hers. Much as Cersei had only wanted Jaime, Robert was strong and handsome, and she had thought maybe there was some way they could at least find affection for one another. But that night she knew the truth. She had never felt more disgusting and used. She could feel his cum on her legs for hours after she had washed them, and she knew she would find no fondness in her heart for Robert Baratheon. She could not compete with a dead woman.

The scent of blood had started to gather and covered her like an unwanted, dirty, used cloak. That was what brought her out of her memories. The wet stickiness she felt between her thighs was real and not imagined as she looked down to see blood coating them. It was gummy, hot, and startling against pale skin mottled with bruises. She stared at it with a sense of not even belonging in her own skin, as if the legs and blood she looked at belonged to someone else. Her smallclothes were soaked with blood, she realized. She slid them down her hips and kicked them across the floor to join the rest of her pile of clothing. The dress could be cleaned; the rest she would burn before her ladies saw them. The clinical nature with which she approached dealing with it as she dropped each of the undergarments into the fire, one by one while just staring at them in a haze of no particular emotion at all, probably should have been disconcerting. But it wasn’t.

Her blood soaked small clothes were the last to feed the fire and made her remember that the scent of blood was still strong. More blood had accumulated between her thighs when she looked down. Cersei reached down and swiped her fingers along her sex and found that they came up stained red with fresh blood. Moonblood? No. It was not the time for it, and she had always been unfailingly regular — as if her body needed to remind her routinely that she was just a woman.

She had felt so betrayed when it had finally come the first time. She had said it wouldn’t happen to her. She had insisted. It had. She remembered running and hiding from her septa and everyone else — even Jaime. But he had finally found her and sat beside her and held her while she cried. It would be all right, he assured her, kissing her hair and never letting her go.

Cersei ran her fingers slowly across the smooth, cool surface of the alabaster hair clasp he had given her that day so many years before. Slowly, she took it in her hand and twisted her hair up. She wanted Jaime close to her now.

Her stomach clenched painfully, startling her out of the memory.

_‘Jaime, Would you ever…’_

_‘Yes.’_

And then she understood.

“No,” she whispered.

“No!” her voice sounded plaintive and so very _broken_ — even to her own ears. “No!”

The answered response from her body, ever betraying her, was a pain that made her double over for a moment. Her fingers swiped more blood. It was too late. Gone before she had ever realized…

Another agonizing clench of muscles made Cersei’s legs give out beneath her as she fell to a pile on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

_Jaime_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got through all the pain and sadness of that chapter, kudos to you and thank you! 
> 
> I would really love to make connections with other ASOIAF fans who want to talk about the series and our works here on AO3. Please reach out to me on Discord if you want to chat! My handle is Aspen#3876 I hope to see some of you there! 
> 
> Up Next: Jaime gets more than he bargained for, and Cersei takes matters into her own hands.


	14. Moon Five (New) -- The Cost of Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei gains an ally; Jaime achieves a victory over one aspect of his life but quickly loses on all other fronts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Hey everyone! I’m so sorry this chapter has taken forever! Between recovering from the flu and then all this Covid-19 stuff, life has gotten crazy, but it’s here at last! Hopefully I’ll be back to writing at a more usual pace after this. 
> 
> \- This chapter is dedicated to BronzeBlues who requested a scene with Jaime and Tywin in addition to the Tywin/Cersei one. 
> 
> \- Also, a huge thank you to SkySamuelle for beta-ing huge sections of this chapter. This chapter combines a lot of elements that made me nervous, so her encouragement and beta-ing really helped this come together the way it did. 
> 
> \- As someone noticed in the comments last time, the battle of Oxcross and Whispering Wood switched order. Mainly because I needed Robb to actually do some fighting by this point but I wanted to detail Whispering Wood in writing but was kept… busy.. In King’s Landing (Thanks Joff. Not.) and ran out of moon phases so. Battles switched places. 
> 
> \- I also wanted to respond to a comment I received both on the comment section and here. The comment basically said that the person had held out hope for the story but they couldn’t stand to read anymore because it was too sad. That was the gist of it anyway. Here’s the thing. There’s going to be happy stuff. The entire three years isn’t going to be like this. However, they are in the middle of a War and bad stuff happens at War. So.. If you’re despairing that this will ever not be miserable, violent, etc. There are lots of future times with content that is much less… difficult to read coming up. 
> 
> \- In this chapter you get to meet another OC whom I hope you’ll love. Currently, Cersei needs someone in her corner and he’ll be instrumental in a later plot point. 
> 
> \- The squire in this chapter, Puck, got his name from the character in Midsummer Night’s Dream. He’ll stick around as well. 
> 
> \- No current playlist updates but a couple of songs are specifically meant for this chapter are Die Young by Shepherd, Song for Zula by Phosphorescent, and Loser Like Me by Glee.  
A few other songs that fit are: Halo Theme, Pompeii, Let the Flames Begin, Call It What You Want, and Letters From War. 
> 
> \- I am so thankful to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Thanks so much: SkySamuelle, Joan_Of_Arc, Highflyer, BronzeBlues, EmpororKaizer, Emma, TheGreyLady, Aaargh, BCP, Saffuran, KatMorgan, Tennebrae, Reader, MLudwig1256, FSMBatman, Astrospace, and Sir_Wobblefish! 
> 
> \- Without further ado…. Let the journey continue!

Moon Five (New)  


The Cost of Victory  


“Who do you think will win today, Mother?”

“I don’t know, my love,” Cersei said looking at her youngest. “I suppose we’ll just have to watch and find out.” _And hope that this goes better than the last tourney_.

The tournament at Joffrey’s name day had been nothing short of painful to witness. The lists had drawn no one of particular interest, and there had been the incident with Ser Dontos Hollard who was now an unfortunate fool of the court. Cersei was not sure whether he considered that to be a better fate than death. She would not have, but then again, she was not a man.

Today was shaping up to be of a potentially better outcome based on the lists. Despite the growing tensions in King’s Landing over the shortage of food and the war — or perhaps because of it — both smallfolk and nobles alike were looking for some sort of diversion as the world burned around them. Perhaps her father had been correct in that it might pacify people for the present. It would do, anyway, while the plans for Joffrey and Sansa’s wedding were still being sorted out.

Sansa. Another disaster her eldest had managed to add to. Sansa Stark had not been seen outside her chambers in the week since she had been called to count for the doings of her brother during the Battle of Oxcross. Cersei had sent Maester Pycelle to see to her but had been told that, in a strangely odd turn of events, her wounds had been tended to. Sansa refused to say who had helped her and Cersei, perhaps remembering her thankfulness over Sansa’s help with Tommen’s knee, chose not to pursue the line of questioning. No doubt there were any number of serving women in the castle who had some rudimentary skills with herbs and medicines that Sansa might have sought out. Regardless, she was unsurprised Sansa was unwell enough to venture out if the accounts Cersei had heard were accurate.

And then there had been the rest of that nightmare of a day. Cersei did not know how it had escalated to the point it did. Tywin Lannister was a cold, calculating man more given to harsh words than physical violence. But, to say he had never struck out in action would be inaccurate too. She well remembered the way he had had their grandfather’s mistress paraded naked through the streets of Lannisport in a walk of shame. He usually preferred for others to dirty their hands, but there was no one who could punish Cersei unless Tywin were to confess the truth, and he would not do that. Cersei wondered if threats and icy glares and words had simply escalated to action far quicker than either of them might have expected.

Either way, the same night Cersei had forced herself, irregardless of pain, to go to the ravenry and send her own letter without council. Kevan had said the forces were now near Whispering Wood, and Cersei could only hope the letter would find its way to Jaime. The parchment bore only two words. _He knows._ It needed no signature, even without her personal seal, which she opted to avoid. Jaime would know her writing. And Cersei had no doubt he would understand her cryptic message well enough as of a single mind as they were.

And she had been right to send it. The very next morning, Tywin had left King’s Landing for Whispering Wood. Kevan remained behind. Clearly, Tywin did not think it wise to leave Joffrey or the city unattended given the disasters that had occurred without him there. No doubt that was how Tywin would see it. Cersei wondered whom he would blame for the ones that had occurred _with_ him there.

Either way, there was a certain relief in having her father gone. She did not know how she would have been able to stand his presence. He had caused her the loss of a child. The loss of a tiny part of Jaime that could have been with her while they were apart, tucked safely away inside of her. True, Cersei recognized the timing of a child would have been disastrous now without Robert to be cuckolded, but that did not mean she felt the grief any less keenly. The turning-green and purple bruises that mottled her skin like a map charged her father as guilty with a crime she would never forgive nor forget.

“Mother?”

Cersei looked down and realized she’d been lost in her thoughts and Tommen had been trying to get her attention.

“When will I be old enough to ride against something other than a straw man?”

She almost snapped at him. It had been such a difficult week, and she was exhausted both mentally and physically. But she stopped herself. She loved her children and was not going to take her frustrations out on them. Instead, Cersei looked at her youngest with a rueful smile. He was growing up far too quickly. “Not until Master Fiore says you are ready. Your uncle Jaime wasn’t even a squire until eleven. You have some time yet.”

Tommen sighed but could not argue with her logic. “Perhaps I could become Uncle Jaime’s page?”

Competing desires warred in her stomach. She did not want Tommen out of her sight much less anywhere near the front lines of the war, but a tiny part of her wondered if between Tywin — who would surely return — and Joffrey, and the Starks, and the mob of peasants outside the Red Keep’s Gates, if Jaime would be able to keep their son safer than she would. He was certainly the only other person she would consider entrusting Tommen to. Still, the idea of letting her son go so near real combat terrified her. Finally, she allowed for a promise neither way. “It is something I could talk with your uncle about when we see him again.” And Gods be good that would be when things were calmer and far safer!

&&

“Here you are.”

“Thanks, Puck.“ Garlan took the lance offered to him by his squire and settled himself more comfortably on his horse’s back. He gave the destrier the gentlest of nudges with his spurs — the spurs he had earned when he was seven and ten years old and had been dubbed a knight. It hardly seemed possible that had been three years ago.

And now he had his own squire and a place in the lists. And a place on the bloody fields of the Riverlands fighting with a sword rather than lances for show: a place where he should still be. But the opportunity to chase the dream he had had since he was young was too appealing to resist. The Kingsguard.

_He could feel the cadence of the great destrier galloping forward, the impact each time hooves met ground sending a sensation of pure adrenaline burning through his veins, making him feel_ alive. _The colorful pennants and cording that marked the tilt and the counter-tilt snapped in the breeze off the Narrow Sea. Garlan could feel the wind tugging insistently at his golden hair — the part of it that escaped the back of his helm — and at Valyrian’s crimson and gold caparison, making the fabric stream out behind them like so many waves of an ocean. _

Garlan supposed being in King’s Landing rather than on the battle field also got his commander his way as well. “You’re too good a fighter to lose on a damned festering wound. You need a maester,” was what he heard from the insufferable man day and night since he had taken the damned arrow and gotten the godsdamned wound to begin with nigh on a moon’s turn ago now.

Tersely, he would always respond, “I’m needed here, not in King’s Landing.” That would be the nearest place to find a friendly maester. Perhaps maesters swore no allegiances, but the castles of the Riverlords they served certainly did. King’s Landing, then, it was.

_Feeling practically as if he was flying and was one with his horse, Garlan entered the tiltyard proper, watching the bright colors of the marking pennants fly past him_ as they r_aced forward toward their foe. His levée was perfect as he reached the center and the two lances crashed against one another sending a long crack down the midline of his opponent’s lance. Good enough for a starting pass. He reached the end of the tilt where Puck was waiting with another lance in hand just in case Garlan’s had been the lance to break_.

The wound should have been a simple thing. The medic still swore with all the festering something must have been on the arrow head, for no matter how many times they doused it in boiling vinegar (while Garlan kept absolutely silent and only gritted his teeth) and burned it with hot coals (while Garlan screamed but refused milk of the poppy) the wound continued to remain stubbornly infected.

Tended to properly after a fortnight in King’s Landing, the wound had begun to look a good deal better and had stopped oozing green puss and reeking to high hell. And, even if it had still been bothering him, there was no way Garlan was going to miss the lists if he was already in King’s Landing anyway and ordered to “Stay there until the maester says you can return without that wound showing me those ugly red streaks creeping up your leg. I can’t have you losing it.”

Fine. He might as well have some fun while he was virtually prisoner in the city. Besides, under the care of one of the many maesters at the Red Keep, his leg _was_ healing nicely. He still doubted he was technically cleared to joust, but Garlan was both bored and could sit a horse. And he had never been good at staying in bed and resting even when instructed to do so. Besides, he also had not been specifically told _not_ to join either. As a result, the lists were calling his name when Lord Tywin announced a tourney.

_And sit a horse he did_. _The high back of his saddle helped absorb the blow of the lance and keep Garlan mounted. There was something rewarding about the blow of two lances coming together, smashing hard and waiting to see if one would break upon the contact. _

_On the second pass, neither lance broke. The knights resolutely turned their horses and prepared for their third pass. The slam of the impact always took his breath away. This time the tip of Garlan’s lance snapped, sending the lance flying in two pieces. He reined up and handed Puck what was left of his lance and accepted the replacement. _

No doubt the tournament was to try to distract people from their problems and lessen the tense mood in the city. It felt to Garlan as if the city was rocking on the very edge of the world, as if it were about to tip over a precipice and into an abyss of utter chaos — or a revolution. A tournament was probably a poor excuse for a distraction, but he supposed it was better than nothing. And, for Garlan, it gave him a chance to pursue his dream of the fluttering white cloak draped about his shoulders and being hailed by fellow knights in armor of white enamel scales.

And what better time to chase it than when Tywin Lannister had apparently left the city to, once again, return to the Riverlands. Garlan couldn’t believe his luck on that front. Then again, fate had to give him something in exchange for the wound. He had even set foot in the sept to pray, so perhaps it was the Gods he ought to thank rather than fate, but who knew anymore.

_The fourth pass. The knights rode forward with perfect accuracy, meeting in the center with lances crashing together. The impact ricocheted down Garlan’s arm with the force. But it was worth it as he saw his opponent’s lance shatter raining down wooden debris. Garlan couldn’t help his heart lifting. The fifth, sixth, and seventh passes were mostly without note. On the eighth it was Garlan’s lance to splinter and send wood pieces flying. But on the ninth, his opponent was unseated and went tumbling to the dirt. One down. Many to go_.

Garlan walked Valyrian in wide slow circles to let him catch his breath before slipping off his back and then letting Puck lead him off to get a drink. Meanwhile, Garlan settled on one of the benches set aside for the knights and watched his competition as the rounds continued. Some of the men were quite good, but if he kept his head on straight and had a little bit of luck… maybe.

He stared up at his personal sigil thoughtfully while waiting. A white roaring lion on scarlet and gold. As the natural son of Gerion Lannister, and thus only a Hill, Garlan was not permitted the use of the Lannister sigil or name, but the resemblance of his sigil left no question as to his identity or loyalty. Tywin had always hated that sigil — perhaps as much as Garlan knew his uncle hated him who bore it. Garlan was relieved his nine name days old half sister, Joy, was a girl and thus escaped Tywin’s notice easily enough, but Garlan had grown up in the man’s scrutiny and had no doubts about his Uncle’s feelings for him. Needless to say, Tywin’s unexpected departure from the city was making this joust far more enjoyable than Garlan had anticipated.

The rounds continued with less time for Garlan to sit and think as more and more competitors were eliminated from the lists going down one by one with him besting his opponent each time. Finally only he and a single opponent — Ser Symon Westerling — remained. Victory was so close Garlan could nearly taste it on his tongue, but he kept himself in check as he climbed onto Valyrian’s back again, forcing himself to pay attention to every move, not to get too excited. Not yet. Ser Symon was an excellent jouster. Garlan had lost to him before. He was determined not to do so again.

_Garlan could feel Valyrian’s great stride beneath him and the impact of hooves and hard ground and the feel of the heavy lance in his hand and the pounding of his heart in his ears made Garlan feel ecstatic as he raced down the tilt. Ser Symon was strong and as his lance made first contact with Garlan’s the hit was so severe that his lance instantly shattered. Garlan felt himself slipping, sliding, going over the edge of Valyrian’s saddle. He scrabbled for purchase as Valyrian snorted and trotted to the end of the tilt with the audience watching every movement as Garlan struggled not to let his feet touch the ground or lose his hold. His fingers and feet worked to find purchase and a way to lift himself up onto Valyrian’s back again. Godsdamn it_!

_He’d named his horse for the flowing white-gold of the horse’s mane looking the way Valyrians of old did with their pale hair and violet eyes and regal bearing. At the moment, Garlan thought he might need the wings of one of those dragonlords’ mounts if it would get him back into his saddle before he lost hold. The crowd watched with bated breath as he continued to struggle. It seemed forever before Garlan’s fingers locked round the edge of the saddle and he struggled his way into it again. He was out of breath and panting, but the roar of approval from the crowd nearly deafened him. He still had a chanc_e.

_He cantered to the starting point once again with lance in hand, determined to ‘thank’ Ser Symon for his excellent blow. He pushed Valyrian into a hard canter and his lance made contact first, but there was not the rewarding crack of wood. Both lances held. Damn. _

Both knights and their mounts were worn and tired, but neither would give in. Giving in was not an option. Garlan could still remember the firm words of Lord Terrence reminding him never to accept defeat, to continue to fight with all he had. ‘A cause is not truly lost until a man gives up hope in it.’ Lord Terrence would always say. Garlan had found those wise words to be true on more than one occasion, and he had no intention of giving up.

A part of him wished the man who had fostered and raised him alongside his own sons and was really more a father than Gerion had been due to pure proximity and Gerion’s untimely disappearance — was here to see him. Gerion had sent his son to foster at Kace when Garlan was only five, and Garlan had been incredibly excited when he was able to formally become a page when he was seven.

Perhaps Gerion remembered far too well how Tywin treated the Lannister he despised who was his own son and had every intention of keeping Garlan far away from such danger. It was quite normal, of course, that a man might send off his natural son to be raised by one of his bannermen and Garlan had loved Kace with its picturesque seaside views that were so much like The Rock. Lord Terrence had always been good to him and his own father visited as he could and often wrote letters of his travels. Garlan’s loyalty to both Kenning of Kace and Lannister of Casterly Rock were firmly cemented by the time he had achieved his knighthood and his legal majority. Lord Terrence had taught Garlan to work hard for what he hoped to achieve, and he would do just that.

_With another lance in hand, he urged Valyrian forward into the lists yet again for another pass at Ser Symon_. _He knew despite the armor and padding, both of them were taking quite a beating after so many rounds and knights. Garlan himself had faced six contenders so far counting Ser Symon. He was tired but jubilant too. And so they passed. A perfect levée from both. It would come down to speed. The lances crashed with incredible force as Garlan heard gasps and yells from the stands when both lances shattered apart raining down to the ground around them. Garlan trotted his destrier forward and gave Puck what was left of the broken lance he had in his hand and accepted another. _

_He had no idea how many lances he had broken today, had lost count, but it was a lot. Turning back, the two knights prepared again. The tension was rising as pass after pass they met each other stroke for stroke, often enough lances splintering, breaking in half, or outright shattering. Garlan figured it was only the adrenaline keeping him going at this point. It came when he least expected it on the fourteenth pass. The lance hit hard and Symon was thrown into the dirt. For a moment, his hands grappled for purchase the way Garlan’s had, but onto the ground he went. The cheering from the stands nearly deafened Garlan. _

He slid from Valyrian’s back and handed him off to Puck to walk him and cool him down so that he could help Ser Symon up himself.

“That was well ridden, Ser.” He said with a smile as the other knight accepted his hand and rose to his feet and lifted off his helm as Garlan did the same.

“Thank you, Ser, as was yours. You are the deserving victor of the day.” Ser Symon offered a small nod of deference as he went to see to his horse.

Garlan looked up as the winner’s laurel and crown of flowers was placed in his hands. It had been made of red roses on this occasion. He walked toward the stands as whispers rose excitedly while they waited and wondered who Garlan would choose for his Queen of Love and Beauty. As an unmarried man courting no one at this time, there wasn’t a particular girl he could be expected to choose and it sent all the young women into a frenzy of hoping they would be chosen by such a handsome knight. Even a bastard knight could still garner respect and desire after such a performance as Garlan had given, after all.

A hush came over the crowd as he passed part of the stands and those girls realized they had not been chosen. Certainly, all of them were beautiful and Garlan couldn’t deny that, but only one choice had the power he needed and, certainly, it could not be said she wasn’t beautiful either.

There was a slight rise of voices when it was thought that Garlan was about to crown Princess Myrcella, whose hand Cersei had grabbed tightly. Gods knew she was not ready for her sweet young daughter to be crowned a Queen of Love and Beauty. Certainly, Myrcella was turning into a beautiful young woman nearing two and ten years of age, but Cersei still felt keenly that Myrcella was her little girl.

However Cersei realized at the last moment that it was not Myrcella Ser Garlan had chosen but herself as the young knight knelt before her where she sat and placed the crown of red roses and laurel atop her flowing golden hair and then took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “It is my honor to crown your grace as my Queen of Love and Beauty.” Garlan said softly, looking up at her with eyes that were green with blue — like the sea that crashed against Casterly Rock.

Her heart thudded against her chest and a blush bloomed in her cheeks even as emotion warred within her. Frustration that now she would be expected to give her attention to yet another person in this awful week and pretend to make merry. But at the same time, it lifted her spirits to be chosen, to know someone found her beautiful and worthy of such a title still when some days she felt unspeakably old.

“The honor is mine, Ser Garlan,” she murmured gracefully as she noted Myrcella and Tommen beaming with pride and beginning to clap with the others when Cersei raised Garlan to his feet and stood beside him while the crowd cheered wildly.

Certainly, Cersei was clever enough to realize it was possible that Garlan hoped choosing her would cause her to grant him a boon of some sort, but even in spite of her frayed nerves, she couldn’t help being flattered.

Cersei’s heart belonged to Jaime and always would. But Garlan, with his Lannister gold hair, blue-green eyes, and regal cheekbones, was handsome and Cersei found she did not mind the attention. There had been a day when men from all over the Seven Kingdoms yearned for one moment of her time. She remembered it well and missed it — before she had been sold off like chattel to Robert Baratheon.

And, truthfully, there was some relief in knowing he surely did not expect anything to come of this given he was technically her cousin by her Uncle Gerion — natural born or not. It had been an exhausting week already. Moreover, there had been no shortage of men hoping to court her since Robert’s death and Cersei thought a day spent with one of them just now would be more than she could bear.

She had not seen Garlan since he had been sent to Kace so many years ago, but she knew he had been rising through the lists and she had seen his name many a time. It would not be the worst thing to spend an afternoon and evening visiting with him as, of course, now crowned as his Queen of Love and Beauty she would be expected to sit with him at the feast. Already, in the pavilions and tents that had been set up, servants were rushing about preparing to bring out food.

In perfect gentlemanly fashion, Garlan offered Cersei his arm and she took it gracefully. As they walked, Garlan gathered his courage and asked, “Would you do me the honor of a walk in the gardens while dinner is being prepared?” He gestured toward the harried servants.

Cersei smiled slightly, “It would be my honor, Ser.”

&&

Garlan led Cersei on a walk along the serpentine steps and away from the noise and bustle of the meal preparations. For a time, the two of them were quiet. Finally, Cersei decided she would speak frankly. The day had begun to wear on her and she could not manage the pretense anymore. If the knight wanted something of her, she would know what it was.

“What is it you want of me?”

Garlan slowed and turned to look at his older cousin in some surprise at her direct assertion that he wanted something. It was true, but he had not expected her to bring it up quite so soon. He noticed, now, a weariness in her green eyes he hadn’t seen earlier. He suspected the strain on her as Queen Regent could not be easy and did not take offense at her lack of pleasantries. In some ways, he appreciated her candor. It let him bring up what he had wanted to speak about without awkwardness.

He hadn’t solely chosen Cersei for what she could do for him — after all, she was beautiful and he remembered her being delightful to be with during his younger years. She was also unlikely to expect any attachment from him that would get in the way of his ambitions of the Kingsguard. But, of course, it was that same ambition that had also played a role in his choosing her. She had the power to make the ambition a reality if she saw fit. And, she might be his only option. Gods only knew Tywin would be quick to refuse him given the dislike he held for the bastard Lannister. Joffrey was an unknown. Tyrion was a captive. Only Cersei currently had the ability (and any likelihood at all) of potentially granting him the dream he’d held since he was a boy.

Garlan had first become aware of the White Swords — beyond simply knowing they existed — when he was seven years old. It was the first summer he acted as a page at Kace, and a tourney had been held there where he had seen Ser Barristan Selmy and his own older cousin Jaime perform amazing feats at the joust and at the melee. He had wanted to be like them. He also understood that it was one of the few places his bastard birth mattered not. A good many bastards had served with high distinction in the Kingsguard ever since its formation. He already knew he desperately wanted to be a knight before that day, but when he saw what Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime could do, he was determined to become like them. It was a goal he’d worked hard toward ever since, honing his skills religiously.

The fact that there might now be even a sliver of a chance filled him with nervous anticipation, though he couldn’t help but feel bad at the manner by which that chance had been created. A Kingsguard knight served for life. And Ser Barristan had been discarded like a sack of old potatoes instead even after three kings’ lifetimes of leel service. But… Someone had to fill the place…

He realized Cersei was looking at him expectantly. “You would have me speak frankly, your grace?”

“Yes.” _It would be nice if someone in King’s Landing did_.

“I would like to fill the empty place on the Kingsguard. It made the most sense to ask you. I think we both know your father’s feelings for me.”

Cersei looked over at Ser Garlan with a shade of surprise. That was it? He wanted the empty spot on the Kingsguard? That solved a problem she had been dwelling on for days now. Ser Barristan had been more gifted with a sword than all the others combined. And, especially with Jaime gone, it had worried her to lose him when her children most needed to be protected. Now, she had a young, capable knight simply offering to take the place. Not only that, a knight who was a Lannister in all ways that mattered. His loyalty had never been questionable.

Cersei suspected that same loyalty and association to be the reason her father disliked Garlan. It was not that Tywin, Cersei suspected, had a problem with Garlan’s baseborn status in general, given that plenty of men had bastards, but that Garlan insisted on consistently bringing attention to his prowess by doing so well in the lists and on the field of battle while simultaneously claiming to be a Lannister in every way he possibly could despite said baseborn status. He was not content to be a Hill. But that exact status made Tywin feel Garlan was unworthy of flaunting his ties to House Lannister — he didn’t deserve to do so. Cersei thought it to be much like Tywin’s feelings on Tyrion — another man who did not deserve to be called by the name Lannister in Tywin’s opinion.

Granting Garlan the place on the Kingsguard was helpful in another way as well as ensuring a loyal, talented man was protecting her children: it would make her father angry. Cersei knew that was childish, but she was angry and hurt, and she wanted him to feel angry as well. She wanted him to pay for the loss he had caused her. This was not nearly an equal payment, not by far. But it was something. It was what she had control over. Everything considered, she had no reason to refuse Garlan the place if he wanted it and quite a few to be pleased to accept his request besides.

Finally, she met his gaze. “The place is yours if that is your wish.”

Garlan felt like jumping and letting out a whoop of joy, but managed to avoid such a childish display. He could not, however, avoid the grin that spread over his features. “It is.” He said, seriously.

He looked like a little boy getting presents on his name day, Cersei thought wryly. “Very well. I will send word to your commander and to Lord Terrence about this turn of events. When your leg has healed the rest of the way, you can begin your duties.”

Garlan gaped at her, “How did you know about my leg? I am well enough to start now.” Both things came out nearly at once.

Cersei looked at him in amusement, “You’ve been limping ever since you started walking. I also doubt your commander would have sent you away from battle without a serious reason to do so, given your capability if today was a good indication as well as everything else I have heard.”

Garlan flushed at being caught. “Still. It’s not bad.”

“Kingsguard armor must be made for you anyway, and you need to get settled in White Sword Tower. That should be enough to keep you busy while your leg finishes healing anyway.” Cersei then realized she did not know whom to send him to to see to those things. Ser Barristan had been the Lord Commander. Jaime was the natural choice to succeed him in such a position, but even if Cersei named Jaime Lord Commander, he wasn’t here at the moment to take charge of the preparation of the newest member.

“Likely, Jaime will become the new Lord Commander, but in his absence talk to Ser Arys about the details. He can help you make the necessary arrangements.” The grin on Garlan’s face couldn’t help but make Cersei’s own spirits lift a bit.

“I will. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

She nodded and then was quiet before proceeding. “We should return to the feast before that leg gives out on you.” Garlan opened his mouth to protest, but Cersei went on. “Besides, it seems to me you crowned me your Queen of Love and Beauty and we are meant to be discussing something more jovial than the troubles of the realm and the Kingsguard. And I want to know about your time at Kace. It has been a long time since we last saw one another.”

Baseborn or not, Cersei felt a certain pull toward Garlan. There had been something endearing about him when he had been a small boy, and she found that quality had not left him. He had inherited the same joy in life that her uncle Gerion had; that same joy which had endeared Cersei to Gerion right up until his untimely disappearance. She could not help hoping that the uncle she had cared for as a child was out there somewhere safe — even if that seemed unlikely. Nonetheless, it seemed to her that she might easily grow as fond of her younger cousin as she had his father.

Garlan smiled then and they turned to walk back toward the feast together as he began to tell her of his years at Kace and of all he had done since they had last seen one another at The Rock during his childhood.

* * *

A headache blazed behind Jaime Lannister’s eyes and temples. The quickly fading remnants of the late evening sun cast a bright beam through his tent and made the ache pulse. He had rarely been so worried as to cause himself unpleasant bodily reactions. Jaime was no longer as careless and as carefree as he had been as a boy. That had ended the day he became The Kingslayer. And, now, it seemed all the worries of life recognized it and had seen fit to descend upon him.

Having been with the men all day long, he had finally gone back to his tent long enough to, ostensibly, eat. However, once he sat down somehow he didn’t care enough to get up and walk over to the food his squire had left for him. He would rather simply sit here. He was exhausted. Days without sleep and the weight of half the Lannister forces and their allies under his command was stripping away the valor and excitement he always felt when fighting came his way.

And that exhaustion had been before the letter had come.

If it was possible for two seemingly innocuous words on a page to turn life upside down, these two had certainly managed it. _He knows_. Jaime’s finger traced the curves lines of his sister’s neat script and he remembered fondly just how much she had hated her calligraphy lessons. Her handwriting had never been bad, but being forced to sit and write out the same lines of poetry or re-write letters over and over until every letter was perfect had made her so frustrated. There was no seal — only an ambiguous blob of black ink — and no signature, but Jaime would have known words penned by Cersei anywhere.

In terms of what it was that was known, well, that was no surprise given the letter Stannis had released. Jaime had no doubt, though, that Cersei had to be talking about their father. Tywin was one of the few people who had the power to command Cersei about and one of the few people that he thought, sometimes, on a rare occasion, actually managed to frighten his sister.

From the note he had received several days before, Jaime could assert two things: his father would very quickly arrive at Riverrun and the Whispering Wood and Jaime must set things into motion to ensure Cersei remained safe while Jaime was not there to protect her. He knew Tywin. Tywin would marry Cersei off and send her and Tommen away from King’s Landing. And while Jaime did not think he would mind cuckolding some fool again if it was the only way to be with Cersei, he remembered Cersei’s sadness during her marriage to Robert and the way Jaime’s own hands usually had half moon bloody indents in them and his cheek was raw from biting on occasions where Robert had argued with Cersei or humiliated her in front of the court and Jaime had had to force himself not to do anything. It was not something he would allow to happen again.

And so he had begun to put into motion a plan to assure Cersei was safe. His father could go on believing he was pulling the strings and making the decisions, but would find that to be inaccurate if he should try to harm Cersei or the children. Just because Jaime had never cared for political intrigues the way Cersei did, that did not mean he was incapable of them when necessary.

&&

It was later the same day when Tywin Lannister arrived at Riverrun’s siege lines and set up camp of his own. Perfectly timed. If Jaime guessed right, Cersei had sent him the warning the day she realized Tywin knew. Tywin would have left that night or the next. Jaime had figured it would be today, give or take a day based on any delays.

And the moment he had settled in, he sent a page to request (more like demand) Jaime’s presence. So, Jaime hauled himself off his bed roll, carefully folding Cersei’s letter and sticking it down into the bottom of the furs. He walked to the tent his father had set up and found that they were alone.

Tywin steepled his fingers beneath his chin in thought as he stared at his son. Probably, Jaime thought, trying to convince himself that it couldn’t be true, that his perfect family legacy was still in tact the way he’d imagined it. But Tywin did not give any cues of the anger Jaime was sure was boiling beneath his skin. Two could play at that game.

Jaime moved to sit across from his father at Tywin’s invitation and took a sip from his water skin. The two were quiet for a full minute, maybe two, before Jaime broke the silence with, “I’m surprised to see you. I would have expected you would be on your way to Ruby Ford.”

Roose Bolton had attacked the lines there. Another disaster. They continued to underestimate The Young Wolf, to their detriment, and he continued to prove to be the kind of young man one should not underestimate. Another stab of his headache warned Jaime to think about that disaster later. Nothing could be done about it right now.

“Ah. Yes. I needed to talk with you and then I will be heading that way directly.”

“Robb Stark’s split and our new plan of attack? Absolutely. I came up with a strategy I wanted to suggest anyway.”

Jaime actually had to fight to hold back amusement as he noted Tywin’s lips twist in a way Jaime knew meant he was displeased. He did not give his father a chance to stop him. Instead, he launched into the — very legitimate — plan of attack he had devised. Fighting and battle strategy came as naturally to Jaime as breathing. If the cost of Lannister and Crownlander lives not been so high, Jaime likely would have been having the time of his life fighting in a war and commanding troops in battle. As it were, he was older now — old enough to know the cost in both lives and provisions was reaching a dangerously high level. The war needed to be ended. Quickly.

Jaime took the time to explain his plan at length. In fact, he made a point to explain it in such detail and take such a long time that Tywin finally interrupted him. “Yes, yes that’s all well and good. Go ahead and give the orders. I have other news I need to give you, and then I have to leave for Ruby Ford.”

“Other news?” Jaime asked.

“Robert has now been dead for an acceptable period of mourning for Cersei. It is my thought that it is time for her to marry.”

Jaime’s stomach felt as if it were hardening the way grease hardens in a cold skillet. He forced himself not to let his mummer’s mask slip. No matter what, he could not look concerned. Not if he wanted Tywin to continue to believe that it was Tywin who held the control.

He forced himself to chuckle slightly. “I expect Cersei will have quite a few words to say to that.”

Tywin scowled. “I am not interested in Cersei’s opinions or words. She is a Lannister and owes a loyalty to our family. This is war and we must all do our part.”

Jaime stared at his father with ambivalence in his deep green eyes and wondered what ‘part’ Tywin was doing and what he was sacrificing. Nothing.

“Mm..” Jaime said, noncommittally, waiting for his father to continue. If Jaime’s silence deterred Tywin or made him uncomfortable, he did not show it. Clearly, two could play at this game.

Tywin’s light green eyes drilled back into his son but failed to see any answers on Jaime’s face. He looked merely impassive, waiting on Tywin to continue. “We still have our name, our pride, our gold, The Rock. There are plenty of houses Cersei could marry into that could aid us in this war. I cannot fail to utilize such an excellent token. So, no, Cersei is not particularly happy with me, but it is what must be done and shall be done.”

“Well, Father, I wish you luck in your matchmaking and in bending Cersei to your will. You will not find her to be the girl you married to Robert Baratheon.”

A rage seethed behind Tywin’s eyes. “Cersei will do what I tell her to do Godsdamn it!”

Jaime said nothing, simply watching Tywin. He did not agree or disagree or even speak. He simply watched.

“Though marriage may not be the easiest task these days.” Tywin was quiet for a minute before he continued brusquely. “I heard a disgusting rumor… about you and your sister.”

Jaime forced himself to remain deadly calm, simply watching his father impassively. Silence hung between them as thick as the way the air feels before a summer storm. Jaime would not be the one to break it.

As it turned out, neither of them were the one to break it. It was Jaime’s squire who came running to the tent gasping for breath with eyes wide. Jaime was half out of his seat almost before he realized it when he looked at the young man’s face. Something was not right. The word tumbled out in between gasps of breath as Jaime encouraged the lad to take some deep breaths and handed him a drinking horn that was close at hand. “The Northron forces have set upon the supply trains! A group of them, a lot more than before. They’re going to break our siege by starving us out if we don’t have supplies either.”

Seven buggering hells! Not again. The Northron forces had attacked their supply trains and caused minor skirmishes for the past three days. Jaime looked up at the last of the evening light which was quickly fading away into darkness.

Before Jaime could open his mouth to respond, Tywin did it for him turning to the squire, anger flaring in his eyes. “We are having a serious conversation which does not pertain to you. You were not given leave to enter. A raid on supply trains is hardly cause to burst into a private conversation and raise such an alarm.”

Now Jaime’s own anger was rising. Tywin had no idea that the attacks had now happened thrice and were getting worse, more serious, and destroying more and more of their precious provisions as well as, now, putting the siege at risk. And, if the Lannister hold on Riverrun broke, it would be a deadly consequence. The mighty force inside the Keep’s walls would spill out to join with The Young Wolf’s forces and fight back. They would likely have the combined strength to cause a good deal of damage. Not to mention, they would be fighting on their own land which they knew and loved. This was bad.

“Enough, both of you! Go, alert the commanders and I will be along quick as I can.” Jaime, said. He ushered the young man out of the tent and then rose himself, checking his sword. That was something he always did by habit even when he could feel the weight of it at his side.

“We are not finished with this conversation!” Tywin exclaimed, glaring at Jaime while a vein throbbed in his temple and his glare was as hard and flinty as The Rock.

“Godsdamn it! Yes, we are done. We are at war! Men, our men, _my_ men, are out there being attacked. Our provisions, scanty and little appetizing though they may be, are being taken. This is not the time, Father.”

Jaime’s eyes blazed as he saw Tywin open his mouth to protest. Then, Jaime did what he always did best and simply forged ahead without further thought because he couldn’t stand it anymore and because he needed to go. “_Yes_,” his tone was emphatic. “I’ve been fucking Cersei since we were children. I love Cersei. I love fucking Cersei. And I have no intention to stop any time soon.”

Tywin’s face had gone nearly white. He was gripping the table so hard it looked as if he might snap the wood. When he spoke, his voice was so filled with disgust that, if Jaime wasn’t so angry by now, might have made him draw back in surprise. “Stop!” Tywin finally got out just as Jaime was about to exit the tent. Jaime paused, looking back at his father with unmasked anger swimming across his features.

“I am the Lord of Casterly Rock and that comes with privileges to which that Lord is due — to make decisions for the House and its Members. So we are going to finish this discussion because the reputation and future of our house and our family name is at stake!”

“Hundreds of mens’ _lives_ are at stake, and all you are concerned about is me fucking Cersei? I promise you that if I were to let you marry her off, which I am not going to do, you wouldn’t find her cunt deformed purely because my cock has been there. The Targaryens married sister to brother for over three centuries and the entirety of Westeros eventually accepted that, just as you are going to accept that Cersei is my sister, my lover, and I am not going to see her harmed again. Robert was horrible to her. He—.”

“Do you think your sister is the first person to endure her husband’s inattentions and… displeasure? Perhaps she ought to have checked herself and learned to please her husband and know her place! That is something I should have ensured she learn, and it is something she is going to learn now because the Lannister Name depends upon all of us undoing the nightmare that has been created. Cersei is going to do her part. And I will remind you once more that those decisions are privileged to me not only as your father but as the Lord of Casterly Rock. So you will both cooperate with me and do as I determine is best fitting.”

Jaime seethed. “Those privileges no longer extend to Cersei. My sister is mine and I am hers. The privileges granted you as Lord of Casterly Rock only exist if you are alive to utilize them. Cersei is _mine_.” He enunciated it as second time, as if Tywin needed an extra reminder. “If _ever _again you harm her, do anything even slightly against her wishes, your death will come before you ever see it. I do not wish to add kinslaying to my list of crimes, but I will not hesitate if you push me to it.”

Tywin did not see him as the Faceless Man, the man who called himself Jaqen H’ghar, emerged. Tywin never saw him until Jaqen’s dagger was at Tywin’s throat.

Perhaps he had not won the Game of Thrones — certainly had no desire to do so! — But he had won the Game of The Rock.

Jaime had never seen his father frightened, he realized. Not once. But now his eyes were wide with fear and also with some kind of astonishment. Astonishment, Jaime realized, because it had never occurred to Tywin Lannister that he could lose.

&&

Jaime swept out of the tent and into the darkness of the night where, his squire waited with both his own destrier and Jaime’s.

It was not a good night for this. The moon was new and once they left the light of the camp, they would have severely compromised vision because of it. Jaime wondered if The Young Wolf had truly been so intelligent as to plan it as such. Two small raids in daylight and now a raid both on their supplies and, then, in the black of new moon, a huge raid both on supplies and likely on Riverrun as well. _Fuck!_ Jaime put his spurs into his horse.

He tried to refocus his mind to his men. They needed his full attention. But he was struggling to do so.

Instead, he was thinking about the look on Tywin Lannister’s face. He was thinking about whether he had, at last, secured Cersei’s safety and independence the way he had wanted to do since she had been sold away to the cruelties of Robert Baratheon. But he had had no way to do that. Until now.

&&

_“Where are the prisoners?!” _

_The man staggered backward, looking at Jaime in shock and fear of all that was happening around them. He only gaped at Jaime as if he couldn’t comprehend what was being said to him, only stare blank eyed at the burning stable, the burning building, and what was left of the remnants of the boys and men the Wandering Crow had been taking North. _

_“Talk to me!” Jaime shook him roughly by the shoulders, but the boy continued to stare at Jaime with glassy eyes. Jaime let him go.  
_

_“The stable! Yoren’s keeping ‘em in the stable!” A voice croaked, smoke inhalation stealing in. It was a familiar voice and Jaime turned, recognizing Gendry Waters. Covered in dirt, blood, and ash, it took Jaime a moment to place the name with the face. But he could not possibly fail to recognize the apprentice from the best armorer’s shop in King’s Landing. How many times had he called there for various purposes? Jaime wanted to ask what he was doing here, but there wasn’t time. _

_Jaime had run across the Wandering Crow and his load of rag-tag boys a couple of days previously and simply taken note that they were in the area. Jaime did not want civilian casualties if he could help it. He intended to try to push them on North as quickly as possible, but so far they remained in the broken down holdfast a few miles away from Jaime’s camp. It was when the smoke had begun rising unchecked that Jaime knew there was serious trouble._

_“What happened?” _

_“Gold cloaks! Been following us. Want something with Yoren! They attacked us when Yoren wouldn’t open the doors.” _

_“The other boys?” _

_“Safe or dead already!” _

_There was a high pitched moaning sound of timbers and Jaime saw that the fire had begun to consume the roof of the stable. He had to go. If he did not go it would be too late. In fact, it might already be too late. Could he possibly get himself in and out of the barn before the fire consumed it and him with it? _

_He looked at the building for a second before stripping off his cloak and dousing with his watering skin before wrapping it around himself and over his head. It was the best he could do and hope he would not be trapped. _

_Smoke choked him and made his eyes water almost uncontrollably as he ducked inside the inferno. He heard the screams and clanking of chains immediately. Jaime coughed uncontrollably as he made his way toward the screaming. He tried and failed to force his mind to stay on the present as he thought of the smell of human flesh melting from bone and the agonizing screams of Lord Chelsted, of Rickard Stark, first as he watched his son being strangled to death and then as the fire took him, thought of all the other people Aerys had burned. Every one of those memories was seared into Jaime’s mind. He had been so young and foolish then. _

_Tears streamed down his face from the smoke leaving streaks in ash that coated his cheeks. He could taste the grit in the smoky air. Sweat from the heat of the fire trickled uncomfortably down his back, and the sound of the roaring was hellish. But Jaime refused to let anyone else burn to death before his eyes. That was one decision he had made long ago. _

_Moving from cage to cage, Jaime struck the locks with his sword, each one until it splintered. On the last one, he nearly missed when a burning piece of wood the size of his leg came smashing down barely missing his head. “Go!” Jaime screamed, voice hoarse and breaking on the word as smoke poured into his mouth when he opened it. They did not have to be told twice. _

_Nor did Jaime as the ceiling began to rain fire, pieces of flaming wood falling all around him as he fled from the barn, stumbling forward until he collapsed on the ground outside. It wasn’t far enough away to suit him, so he forced himself to his feet and stumbled further away into the tree line. He had to stand there leaned over with his hands on his thighs wheezing and coughing for a good half an hour before his lungs were clear enough to even consider straightening up and another half an hour still before he was strong enough to make his way back to camp.  
_

It was only later that he learned the identity, assumed identity anyway, of the Faceless Man whom he had saved. Jaqen H’ghar who now encouraged him to say three names.

Robb Stark’s name had been on his tongue. Gods how badly he had wanted to say it. But, before he could, an unwanted, unwelcome image of Bran Stark lying crumpled and broken below the tower intrusively forced its way into his mind. Another image of the way he had seen Sansa Stark with her arms around her father’s neck sobbing so hard her back heaved and she could barely breathe and of Arya, red faced and angry. She had been hitting a tree again and again until her hands bled and still she kept hitting it, crazed with grief.

The name wouldn’t come.

* * *

The new moon gave the Northron and Riverlander forces not even a sliver of light by which to see. While it was eerie not to be able to see even his own men as they rode, Robb knew that the darkness and cover would provide them an excellent chance of succeeding in luring The Kingslayer and his men into the trap they had devised and, thus, freeing the siege on Riverrun. If Robb could not see his own men while he knew they were there, the likelihood that the Kingslayer would notice them seemed slim. At least, that’s what Robb was counting on.

This battle could be an important turning point in the war, and they needed to succeed tonight. Robb could only hope things would go according to plan. Oxcross had been a victory, but they needed to continue to get victories. Not to mention, his uncle Brynden had become as irritable as a bear just waking up from winter hibernation as they drew nearer to the sieged Riverrun. Robb could understand that. He could only imagine he would be the same if Winterfell was the castle under siege.

The Blackfish was mounted to one side of Robb and Olyvar to the other. Grey Wind was at their heels. Olyvar’s mount seemed to have finally gotten used to the massive wolf, though Robb couldn’t imagine he was happy about it. Robb supposed, if he were a horse, Robb wouldn’t blame him at all.

Robb was surrounded closely by the contingent of men (and Dacey Mormont) who seemed to have taken it as their personal charge to keep him safe.

“This is going to succeed and we’ll be at Riverrun before dawn.” Robb said softly to the Blackfish.

“You’re damn right we will! Riverrun has been in the Tully family since well before Aegon Targaryen ever even laid eyes on Westeros. Now, Edmure is injured and he and our people are stuck inside the castle in danger. I will not forget this. I will return the favor in kind,” He growled. Robb thought privately that he was glad that the Blackfish was on his side of the fighting. He should not like to have to go up against him — either his battle scheming mind or his offensive attack.

Robb looked around as he heard an imminent approach of a rider coming fast and hard. He turned Night Raider toward the approach and recognized Ser Marq Piper’s three and ten year old squire. The boy was breathless and red cheeked, panting hard. He must have come at a full clip. “Ser… Marq…. Says.”

Robb looked at the young boy amused. “Catch your breath, then try.” He offered the squire his canteen and received a grateful nod as the lad took a deep drink before handing the canteen back and brushing a hand over his mouth.

“Ser Marq’s raid on The Kingslayer’s supply train was a success. The outriders say Ser Jaime is on his way with a huge contingent of men.”

It was better than Robb might have hoped. They had been staging small raids on the Kingslayer’s supply train for three days in hopes of annoying him and drawing him into the fight himself with fighting men, and now it had finally happened. The trap was set and lay waiting for its prey. Jaime Lannister could not reach the supply train without crossing this very valley where they now stood mounted and waiting for him in the darkness. Before he knew what had happened, he would find himself trapped on all sides just as they had planned out the morning of Robb’s wedding — deciding what they would do when they finally reached Riverrun.

Thinking of the castle and of his wedding made Robb tense slightly. He hoped his mother and Roslin were safe. With Riverrun under siege, there was no safe holdfast for them. The best he could do was place them under guard at the camp they had left the night before and hope it would be far enough away not to attract notice and then send for them when the siege was relieved. It made him anxious and uncomfortable, but his focus needed to remain on his men and this coming battle.

He looked around at the waiting trap he knew was there but could not make out in the darkness: Robb and a huge contingent of his Northmen in the valley, Lady Maege’s and Lord Mallister’s men flanked them to the East, Lord Karstark’s men to the North, Ser Stevron’s to the West. And across the ridge The Greatjon waited. When the Kingslayer’s men entered the trap, Greatjon would bring his men around behind them, closing them off from any escape. Lady Maege had the best vantage point and was to blow a warhorn once as the forces began to enter the valley ahead. Now all they had to do was wait for her signal.

And when it came long, and clear through the night, Robb felt as if his blood was racing. Seconds later, the first of the Lannister men were within hearing distance and Robb knew the Greatjon was already moving his men around into place.

The trap was sprung.

Jaime realized it too late.

The warhorn in itself had not been surprising, but it was when he heard the movements behind his men and peered into the darkness and did not see but rather heard the snorts of horses and stamps of their feet that he realized they were trapped inside the valley. And the attacks on his supply train had simply been a carefully coordinated ruse. _Seven Fucking Hells_!

His breathing escalated even as he continued forward. They would have no choice but to cut their way through the enemy. And if he was going to be trapped here, it would not be without his cutting the Young Wolf open from brain to balls. _Godsdamn Northroners_! And, yet, Jaime could not help but silently marvel at the trap even as his ire grew. It was exactly the kind of thing he wished he had thought of first.

As the sheer amount of men descended upon them from all sides, Jaime knew they were in trouble.

* * *

Still cloaked in the darkness of the hour of the wolf, the Northron forces lifted the siege on Riverrun.

Robb Stark stood in the entry hall of the keep where his mother had grown up and where, now, activity was bustling as women hurried to put food on the table and draw and heat water for baths for the exhausted, beleaguered soldiers, and where Robb waited anxiously for his mother and Roslin to join them.

He had sent word to where they were camped safely away from the fighting and could barely wait to have Roslin in his arms again. It had been difficult to leave her away from him after traveling together, but it was far too dangerous to have her near the fighting. It was better, at least, he told himself than if she had remained at the Twins. Then it would be months before he could see her again.

He knew he needed to calm down and attend to everything. It was possible his mother and Roslin would not even leave until first light to join them. It might be hours or a full day before he could see them. He had responsibilities to his men he could not shirk. Yes, it had been a clear and obvious victory, even including the capture of the Kingslayer as a hostage now giving them _both _of Tywin Lannister’s sons, but war was never without cost. He must see to his men.

Before he could leave to do so, a young girl came to him shyly and put a bowl of stew into his hands. “Thank you for helping us.” A look at her suggested she probably five or six, not much older than Rickon anyway.

Robb blushed slightly at her thanks. “It was my uncle who brought everyone inside the walls. I can’t be given credit for that.”

“But you lifted the siege.”

“Aye.” He agreed. “With help.” His stomach grumbled hungrily, clearly irritated at being continually ignored after the physical labor he had put in during the battle. He lifted the bowl and took a deep, long drink of it.

“Thanks for this. Do you know where I can find a second one?” He asked sheepishly, a slight grin on his face. He might not have asked, gone hungry instead, but he knew from The Blackfish that Riverrun’s stores were immense and well provisioned.

“Yes! And there’s much more in here than stew,” the girl said, leading him toward the Great Hall.

“Ah! Stark!” Somehow, the Greatjon’s cheeks were already ruddy with drink and he lifted his goblet in a toast before offering it to Robb who waved it off. The memory of the night before his wedding was still far too keen for him to have a desire to drink — even at an apparent celebration.

The war was hardly won, but he could not begrudge his men nor the formerly sieged inhabitants of Riverrun their celebration. Not to mention, it might be nice to forget about all of it at least long enough to eat a good meal. It had been salt jerky and carefully rationed hard bread ever since leaving the Twins. So, Robb took a trencher and began to pile food on it without delay as he listened to the celebration going on around him. Someone had pulled out a harp and was singing and people talked in happy, buzzing voices. No doubt the men that could not fit inside were having the same sort of celebration within Riverrun’s grounds.

Robb was halfway through his plate when Olyvar joined him and Grey Wind tagged along at the Squire’s heels. No doubt he had been hunting after the labor of the fight and had seen fit to return along with Olyvar now that they were becoming used to one another. Robb reached out to take Grey Wind’s massive head in his hands and give it a good rub when he finally noted the expression on Olyvar’s face.

Instantly, Robb’s worries and responsibilities came tumbling back onto his shoulders. Already he was on his feet, ready to resume his duties. “What is it?”

“We’ve not accounted for everyone who died on our side yet. The losses are minimal but… The Kingslayer.”

Robb’s eyes focused on Olyvar. Yes, Robb had captured Jaime Lannister, but he had a sickening feeling in his gut that this was not what Olyvar was going to talk about. It was that feeling right before one is thrown from a horse where the stomach drops, feeling as if it will fall right out of a man’s feet.

“Remember The Kingslayer cut his way right to you while you were already fighting?”

Robb felt suddenly cold. Jaime Lannister had indeed cut his way straight to Robb. It was pure luck, the Kingslayer’s foot twisting on a rock in the darkness, that gave Robb the precious second he needed to knock Lannister forward with his sword to Jaime’s throat. Everyone was toasting him for it, but it hardly felt appropriate praise. It had been luck and nothing more. But, Robb had been surrounded by his personal battle guard. Who had Jaime killed in his bid for Robb’s blood?

“Who, Olyvar?” Robb asked, his voice hoarse.

“Torrhen and Eddard Karstark,” Olyvar whispered.

Robb stumbled backward in shock, feeling the back of his knees hit the bench hard. Had it not been there, he would have fallen.

“Both?” Robb didn’t want to believe it. “Harrion? Daryn?” His voice was barely a croak.

“Harrion’s fine. Daryn…”

Robb swallowed, trying desperately to grapple for any sort of composure he had, not wanting to cry. He _couldn’t_. He must set an example. He was a leader and the luxury was not his to mourn his friends now. Alys’s young face swam in his mind as he thought of having to tell her that her betrothed and two of her brothers were dead — all at the hands of Jaime Lannister — all because they were trying to protect Robb.

“Where is Lord Karstark?” He asked, slowly rising again. “Has he been told?”

“No one has seen him since the siege was lifted.”

_Seven Hells_!

A sick feeling swept over Robb and, for just a moment, he thought he might retch up all the food he had just eaten. It was a memory, a memory of something he never should have seen. A memory of a man dangling from rope on a tree in Winterfell’s Godswood. His son had been killed in a hunting accident a fortnight prior. Robb had never told anyone, not even Jon, what he had seen that day. Part of him wanted to, but it was too horrible and he could not make the words come out of his mouth. He had been six then. His father found the body next and then it was brought down and buried, but it was a long time before Robb journeyed into the Godswood again.

Olyvar didn’t have to ask where Robb was going as his retreating form left the Great Hall with Grey Wind.

The more rooms Robb searched, the colder his blood felt like it was becoming.

Out of options to search inside, Robb left the Keep alone save for Grey Wind leaving the celebration going on behind him. The greater distance he covered, the faster he moved until he was nearly running back into the Whispering Wood, into the clearing. The grey light preceding dawn was just bright enough that Robb could finally see the field in which they had fought, littered with bodies. Most of them wore crimson. But not all.

Robb noticed Silent Sisters in their grey habits already placing the bodies on a cart to prepare them for burial. His eyes scanned back and forth across the clearing until he finally saw Lord Rickard.

He hadn’t removed his armor. His Karstark great cloak was sodden with blood. His long, grey hair fell into his face. A head wound somewhere had tinged the man’s hair and beard red with blood. Somehow, he looked gaunt and hollow. He looked as though he had aged twenty namedays in the span of a night. He looked like a corpse. The true horror was the body of his youngest, Torrhen, splayed across his lap. Again, Robb felt as if he wanted to vomit. Lannister had literally sliced Torrhen from balls to brain. Vital organs spilled from his lifeless body. A pool of blood turned black as it dried spread across his body, his father’s body, and the ground around them. Lord Rickard stared off into the distance, clearly seeing nothing as he held the body of his son to him, rocking slightly.

Robb Stark stood there for a moment staring with abject horror at the gut and intestines of one of his friends, one of his most dedicated and brave supporters, spilling out of his body and onto the ground around him and cursed Jaime Lannister to the Others.

Robb began to pick his way down the hill into the valley where they had trapped and defeated the entire host Lannister had brought with him. He forced himself to look at every body that did not wear crimson. He owed them that.

“Lord Karstark?” Robb asked as he drew closer. The man did not turn, did not seem to even see him. He only seemed to startle back to reality when Robb gently touched his shoulder, making him flinch in surprise.

“Robb?” Lord Rickard sounded lost and surprised. “Why aren’t you with the others? You ought to be celebrating. Tonight was… was a great victory,” he said, though there was something that felt like an immense weight in his words. For the first time, Robb thought Rickard looked an old man — a tired old man.

“I am right where I ought to be now,” Robb said softly. He would have sat beside the man, but he could not bring himself to sit in his friend’s blood.

Robb saw a fluttering at his shoulder and realized the Silent Sisters were working in their row of bodies now. Soon, they would be ready to move and prepare Torrhen’s body.

He took a deep breath. “You have to let him go now. So the sisters can do their work.”

For a second, Rickard held his son even tighter. He looked as if he was on the point of refusing to give him up, refusing to let Torrhen be taken away. Then, just as suddenly, his shoulders seemed to droop and he nodded, slowly laying his son’s remains back onto the ground as carefully as one might put a baby in a cradle.

“Come. We are going to get you a bath and some tea to help you sleep.” Robb knew there was no point in suggesting food. He was relieved when Lord Rickard finally staggered to his feet and followed.

&&

An hour later, Robb had taken Lord Rickard into Riverrun and sent the first smallfolk he could find off to heat a bath and find a comfortable, private room for Lord Rickard. He had left the man alone to bathe while he sought out Maester Luwin to prepare a draught of tea that would help Lord Rickard sleep. Dreamwine, Robb thought wisely, might turn his stomach just now, so tea would be better.

Having procured the tea, Robb returned to find Lord Rickard sitting in front of the fire staring into it as it crackled over the grate like a thing alive.

Robb knocked lightly on the door to avoid startling him and Lord Rickard looked up. Robb moved to sit next to him. Robb wished the circumstances were different — that they were simply two Northron men having a chat. But no matter how much he might wish it, that was not the case.

Robb passed the tea into Lord Karstark’s hands and bade him drink. He did not fight Robb on the point, much to Robb’s relief. There seemed to be no fight left in him at the moment. He drank deep, contemplative sips until the tea was gone.

Robb finally said, “When we go North again, I will find a match for Alys. I will find someone good, and strong, and true.”

Lord Rickard nodded, “You have my thanks.” Though his tone was dull, Robb could tell there was sincerity behind it that the man was simply too hurt or exhausted to truly express.

They were quiet for a moment before Robb continued. “Neither of your sons will ever be forgotten. I… will not forget their sacrifice.”

Robb was quiet for a time before he spoke again. “My first son will be named Torrhen. And I will tell him of his namesakes Torrhen Karstark and Torrhen Stark, both who worked to keep the North safe and the people of it protected. Long will Torrhen’s memory live.”

Lord Rickard’s eyes were red around the edges and he sighed heavily. “You needn’t do something like that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Lord Rickard swallowed, trying to maintain control of his emotions. “Thank you, Robb.” His voice cracked, but he got it out.

The man put a hand on Robb’s and Robb could not have said how long they sat there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: Plans are made and alliances are tested.


End file.
